Fields of Heaven
by Laora
Summary: A collection of Marauder-era oneshots. —- 21. Trust: For Remus, trusting others—and thus loving them—can be nearly impossible.
1. Coma

**I. Coma**_  
>-—James realizes that he needs to do more for his friends.<br>January, 1973_

* * *

><p>Twelve-year-old James Potter can't stand it.<p>

He, Sirius, and Peter are clustered near a hospital bed stained scarlet with their friend's blood, staring on with wide eyes as Madame Pomfrey works to heal his wounds. She has assured them that Remus will be fine, that this has happened before, that he'll wake up by dinner, ready to swap jokes and catch up on what he's missed—

But James can only think that_ he's been doing this alone for a year and a half._

It's January of their second year; only yesterday did the three of them discover where Remus disappears to every month._ He's a werewolf. A monster. Something not to be trusted._ But James pushed those doubts, those fears away and pulled Sirius and Peter to the Hospital Wing that morning. He needs to know firsthand, to see for himself that one of his best friends is the monster he has always been taught to scorn...

Peter resisted for a moment, terror in his eyes, but eventually came along. Sirius—stubbornly loyal to the end—agreed without question.

Any doubts the three of them had are washed away, now, as Remus lies in that bed. Peter's trembling violently, but then, so is James; Sirius is leaning against the wall, looking for all the world like Medusa's victim, locked in place forever with horror frozen on his face.

They thought they had been prepared—they thought they would be able to handle anything Remus was hiding from them. They're friends; they're the _Marauders;_ nothing can stop them when they truly put their minds to it.

But James' world is falling to pieces all around him as Madame Pomfrey straightens up, cleaning the sheets with a flick of her wand. The look on her face tells them that Remus will be fine—they shouldn't worry—he's been through this before.

But it's that simple fact that is tearing him apart. Nobody should have to live through that. Nobody should have to call innumerable, gaping wounds a good night, let them all heal halfway, bounce back to clueless friends as if nothing ever happened.

As if he hasn't literally _torn himself apart._

As if he _deserves_ it all.

The three of them are at Remus' side before James has even realized they moved. The nurse warns them against it—he won't wake for several hours—but they owe him this much. They need to be there for him when they have not in the past, to make up for the Hell they've surely put him through.

He will brush it off, will say it is nothing, but James cannot shake the horrible guilt as he stares down at the bandaged face of his best friend. He can barely stand to look; Remus is far, far too still; his face is expressionless. If James didn't know better, he would assume he is dead.

_Remus._

_Dead._

The idea is far too terrifying to think of.

So they can only sit there for countless hours, waiting for him to wake up. Their lives have shattered with this terrible realization; now, it is their responsibility to set them right, to start building themselves up anew.

But, James decides as he looks down at his friend, _Remus comes first._ Their own anxiety is nothing compared to his suffering. They will make it better, make it _right_, because Remus is worth so much more than he's been dealt.

They will do whatever it takes, because they are _brothers_.

Nothing will ever tear them apart.


	2. Underwear

**II. Underwear**_  
>-—Remus tries to save his friends from the wrath of the female race...and fails.<br>April, 1976_

* * *

><p>"Do you realize how idiotic this is?"<p>

"C'mon, Moony, let us have our fun~"

Remus wants to bang his head into the nearest sturdy object. Forcefully and repeatedly. "You became Animagi for _this_?"

"Nah, it's 'cause we love you. This is just a bonus."

"...Really, James. Really."

"It's _Prongs._ Codenames, remember. We can't get caught. This is a top-secret mission, after all."

"Uh...right. Lily's - ?"

"Shhhhh!" Sirius' voice is loud and obnoxious...not that it matters. They're the only ones in the common room; everyone else has left for Hogsmeade. "_Top secret._ What don't you understand about that?"

"I think it's something about the fact that you want to _invade the girls' dormitory - "_

"SHHHHHHHHH!"

That wall is looking quite tempting. "James, _there isn't anyone here..._"

"C'mon, it'll be fun!" Peter cuts him off, sounding far too joyful for someone who's just turned himself into a rat. " We're just on lookout - we'll be fine! Let them have their fun, we've been working our arses off..."

"See, Wormy's got the right idea!" Sirius pulls Peter into a headlock, tousling his hair in a way that makes Remus wince. "Seriously, Moony, just lay off for _three seconds._ It's not like you can join us, so just distract Lily if she comes back early so we can get the hell out of there before she scalps us."

And before he can object again, before he can try and knock sense into the thick skulls of his three moronic best friends, they've disappeared, transforming and bounding away.

Remus walks over to the nearest wall and slams his forehead into it.

...

They're still gone. Dammit.

Peter's sitting inconspicuously near the foot of the staircase, glancing alternately between the portrait hole and the chair Remus has sunk into. For a rat, he looks surprisingly amused.

Remus fights the urge to throw him across the room. And then magic himself upstairs to save James and Sirius before they get themselves killed via...

Tampon...or high heel...or hair brush...

Or whatever other weapons of mass destruction girls keep in their dormitory.

(Surely the room's booby-trapped against boys? What if someone tries to fly in through the window?)

Remus winces as he remembers that he narrowly convinced James against doing just that in their second year. He had been entirely too enthusiastic...

Peter squeaks. Loudly. It's irritating - holy bloody _hell_ is it annoying - and it takes Remus a moment to realize that it's a warning.

_Lily has entered the premises._

Plan B: _distract while Peter goes upstairs and gets them the hell out of there._

But what the hell is he supposed to say? "Oh, sorry, Lily, you can't carry all those bags upstairs just yet because my best friends are _digging around in your - _"

Oh Merlin no. That would just be _asking_ for death by tampon.

BUT WAIT OH SHIT NO

Lily's making her way toward the dormitory stairs

ABORT ABORT

As much as he's irritated by James and Sirius and Peter they're still his best friends in the whole effing world and he definitely does not want to bury them

(Death by curling iron. He's not even entirely sure what that bloody thing does but it sure sounds painful oh sweet _Merlin_)

so he stands up quickly - maybe too quickly. Mary turns to look at him strangely. "Oi, Remus, you all right?"

Thank _Merlin_ he's the only one the girls can stand.

(Not like he's complaining. They've definitely..._developed_...quite nicely.)

"Where's Potter and the others?" Lily asks, immediately suspicious. "You lot are always together..."

_Dammit all to hell._ That's what he had been trying to tell James - it'd be weird for Remus to be all alone in the common room - on a _Hogsmeade weekend_ no less -

"Detention," he says automatically, because really they do spend half their time holed up in McGonagall's office. Sirius has even taken to calling her Minnie, blissfully ignoring every eye twitch and death glare.

(Hell, McGonagall's a woman too. Remus shudders at the thought. _Oh Merlin...the things she could do to us poor men..._ If she ever seriously got pissed off, four poor sixteen year olds wouldn't stand a chance.)

Lily rolls her eyes but continues toward the stairs. (EMERGENCY PETER WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG HOLY CRAP) "Well, at least - "

"Wait!" Remus blurts out before he even realizes what he's doing. His only thought is _get her and Mary away from the staircase or heads will roll via lipstick or - or something - _"I - I need help with my Potions assignment, you know I'm bollocks at it - I was wondering if you could help me - "

Lily laughs but resumes walking. "Sure, just let me put my bags upstairs..."

Remus makes a noise that is somewhere between a moan and a squeak, and both girls look at him with something like concern before all Hell breaks loose.

The staircase has, evidently, decided there are men aboard, for it's turned itself into that goddamned slide and three rather feminine - _manly, _Sirius would later insist - squeals fly down the staircase.

The invisibility cloak - barely large enough to fit three at a time, now that Sirius and James have decided to grow_ obscenely tall_ - has slipped off, revealing three very guilty-looking boys.

This could be excused. This could be written off as a joke or a prank or something, see how far they could get up the staircase - the situation could still be salvaged - _there is hope - _

But then Remus notices the flowery underwear hooked on the edge of James' glasses.

And then he sees Lily's reddening face.

So he runs for his life.


	3. Warmth

**III. Warmth**_  
>-—All Sirius knows is the cold.<br>December, 1976_

* * *

><p>All he knows is the cold.<p>

He's alone, shivering, in the heart of London with no idea of where to go. He left his house and family behind—permanently—after a row with his mother and father that morning. It wasn't one of their usual fights; indeed, it was one full of screaming loud enough to shake the walls, words harsh enough to get his name blasted off the family tree.

(He doesn't regret it—would do it again in a heartbeat—but now he realizes that he has nowhere to go.)

He knows Grimmauld Place is on the east side of London, knows James lives somewhere outside the west end...Peter and Remus are much farther away...but he's lost, completely and utterly, and he doesn't have the slightest idea of where to go next.

(Running away with only a shrunken trunk and a wand he can't legally use, in retrospect, was not his best idea.)

It's the first week of Christmas break, and the Muggle street he's now trudging down is alight with celebration. The lights strung along roofs and sidewalks, the Christmas trees lit up and presents nestled beneath them...

Just one sip of Butterbeer, he thinks, would be the best gift anyone could give him right now.

The days are short, and it's getting late; the sun sank below the horizon several minutes ago, and he knows it's only a matter of time before the last remnants of its light are gone. He'll be alone, lost, freezing to death, with absolutely no way to contact any of his friends for help...

(He's usually too proud, too much a Gryffindor male, to ask for help...but he thinks, after wandering all day in a too-thin jumper, that he doesn't quite care about that right now.)

If only his birthday was in the fall, like Peter's! If only he were already seventeen and could use a warming charm, unshrink his trunk and disillusion himself. That way, he could _fly_ to James' house...

But he's too young; his birthday is in June; he is in a definitely Muggle neighborhood. The Ministry would come faster than he could blink, take him back to Grimmauld Place...

(And that's a Hell he swears he will never return to again.)

So he can only plod on in the desperate hope that he will stumble upon something familiar. Maybe he will meet someone he knows; maybe he will find his way to some wizarding establishment; maybe...

.

.

It begins to snow.

.

.

He doesn't know how long he continues walking like this, face downturned against the wind, unfeeling hands shoved into his armpits, feet soaking wet through the thin material of his shoes. (Chuck Taylors—his mother had been beyond furious. That was, of course, part of the reason why Sirius loved them.)

It must be late, because hunger is gnawing at his stomach, and he had eaten breakfast that morning. A nagging voice that sounds suspicious like Remus says that he should have planned this better, nicked food from his parents' kitchen, cast charms before he left to keep him dry and warm...

(But that's not how he operates. He is spur-of-the-moment at the best of times, and if he gets angry...he's lucky he thought to throw this old jumper on before he stormed out.)

He briefly considers his Animagus form—it's wandless magic, may not be picked up by the Ministry's Trace—but he can't take that chance. He's unregistered; Merlin knows what will happen if he uses any sort of magic—especially illegal magic—in an obviously Muggle area...

But maybe if the Ministry catches up to him, they'll bring him someplace warm and dry. That, surely, is better than where he is now... And, he remembers suddenly, Mister Potter is a retired Auror, still has plenty of connections in the Ministry. Maybe he could get him out of a jail sentence...maybe...

(He knows James and Peter and Remus would all punch him for even _thinking_ of doing this to himself, but he's rather beyond caring at this point.)

He's about two seconds from throwing caution to the winds and turning into the large—_furry, warm_—dog, when a startlingly familiar voice sounds from in front of him.

"_Sirius?"_

He looks up, squinting to see the speaker between the thick flurries of snow and his spinning vision. He could have sworn—but it wouldn't possibly be—James lives too far away, he wouldn't be anywhere near...wherever he is...

He thinks he sees something red and black moving his way, but his legs finally give out, sliding forward while his back hits the snow behind him. The wetness soaking through his jumper and hair is not much colder than the ice that's already matted to him; his eyes strain to focus as something—someone?—leans over him, grabbing him by the shoulders and heaving him up.

"Sirius? _Sirius!_ Gods, what the hell are you doing out—Mum! Please! Get over here!"

Yes, that definitely sounds like James, though his voice is desperate and terrified. The last time Sirius heard his best friend like this, they were working on their Animagi transformations; Peter's head had shrunk to the size of a rat's while his body stayed the same, and none of them could figure out how to fix it.

James' eyes had been wide and horrified then, and though Sirius can't see his face clearly now, he knows it must be similar. So he does his best to stay awake, to stay aware of his surroundings, because James is his _brother_ and he can't stand seeing him upset...but he's just so _tired._ And when the strangely warm tingling sensation washes over his body, he feels sleep overtaking him at last.

.

.

The next thing he knows is a soft, warm bed and tight pressure on his left hand.

He opens his eyes to see an ashen-faced James at his side. He's wearing the same red coat as before; his hair is sopping wet; he looks completely and utterly terrified.

James is focused entirely on the steady rise and fall of Sirius' chest, so Sirius decides to break the silence. "Oi, you're not turning into a girl on me, are you?"

His friend's gaze snaps to meet his own, and there is a moment of pause before he launches himself onto the bed, embracing Sirius in an enormous hug.

"Don't you _ever_ do that again, you bloody idiot—you've been out for _hours_—you could have died—if we hadn't been out to dinner _halfway across London—_who knows where you'd be—"

"A snowman on the side of the road, I expect," Sirius says, doing his best to lighten the mood. It was a bad idea—he knew that from the get-go—but it turned out okay...that's all that matters, right?

James holds on for a moment longer before sitting back on the edge of the bed. "Mum's been worried sick—we all have. Do you need anything? Does anything hurt?"

His eyes look suspiciously glassy, but Sirius does not mention it; if their positions were reversed, he knows he would react in the exact same way. "Nah, I'm fine." He sits up to prove his point, grinning over at his best friend. "It'll take more'n a snowstorm to get me, you know that..."

James' smile becomes much more relaxed, as if such a simple gesture has lifted the world off his shoulders. "Well then, Padfoot, welcome home."

* * *

><p><em>AN: SONUVABITCH apparently this happened during the summer he was sixteen? OTL Oh well, too late to change this now~_


	4. Driven

**IV. Driven**  
>-—<em>Sirius realizes that there is more to school than goofing around.<br>October, 1973_

* * *

><p>Sirius is bored.<p>

This isn't an uncommon occurrence, especially when there's a Potions essay due the next day, but there's not even anyone around to entertain him. James is away at Quidditch practice for the evening—even as a third year, he seems to have mad visions of playing for the Harpies—and Peter and Remus are trying to figure out Potions.

He knows Remus isn't the best at the subject, and Peter spends class zoning out with James and Sirius...he has half a mind to help them out, because he's pretty sure he understands forgetfulness potions.

Remus would disapprove, because Sirius will definitely _not_ be writing his own essay...but really, Slughorn is wrapped around his and James' little fingers. Remus and Peter, not so much...so he figures the least he can do is help them out when they'll be graded a lot harsher.

He turns to ask what they're stuck on, and sees Remus bent over his meticulous notes, trying to figure something out and at the same time explaining it to Peter. Sirius has always marveled at the way he takes school so seriously. It's almost ridiculous, the pages of notes he takes and the perfectly-spaced essays with the tiny handwriting and the way he gets everything, _everything_ done on time, even if there's a full moon in the way—

Remus heaves a heavy sigh, flipping back several pages. "I'm just not sure..."

"Forgetfulness potions, right?" Sirius injects himself into the conversation, leaning across the table. Peter looks up and nods with wide eyes, but Remus doesn't seem to hear him; he's poring over Monday's notes with a deep crease in his brow. His eyes are a brighter gold than normal, and his skin is pale and sickly; Sirius remembers with a start that the full moon is only two days away.

"Oi, Remus, go to bed. You look like hell," he advises, pulling the essay toward him and glancing over what his friend has so far. "The essay'll be there in the morning..."

"And I'll feel even worse tomorrow." Remus looks utterly exhausted as he skims his notes. "I just need to get this done...then I'm caught up on everything for this week, and I'll be all right for Saturday night..."

"Just skive it off! It's just one essay—me and James can talk to Slughorn—"

Remus looks up, his eyes wide and scandalized. "I can't just—_not do_ an assignment! You guys can get away with it, you're—but I can't—"

He shakes his head sharply, suddenly, returning to his notes with his lips pursed. But Sirius won't let this go. Sure, Remus isn't a part of the unofficial "Slug Club," and he isn't quite as wild and outgoing as the rest of them, but surely missing _one_ essay when he's so miserable—"Why are you so uptight about school, anyway? I mean, it's not _that_ big of a deal..."

It doesn't come out quite as eloquently as he had envisioned, but Remus doesn't seem to mind his bluntness. He's quiet for a moment, though his eyes have stopped moving over his notes. Sirius is about to press him more, ask what's wrong, because even if he doesn't take hints well, he knows something is bothering his friend...

But Remus replies at last, his voice low and quiet. "I almost didn't get to come to Hogwarts, you know. Headmaster Dippet wasn't going to let me...but then Dumbledore took over, and he said he'd figure something out..."

This takes Sirius by surprise; Peter's wide eyes show he knew as little about this as he did. They've known for a year, now, that Remus was bitten by that werewolf when he was six years old...but it's never crossed his mind, the true repercussions of it.

"...But if anyone finds out, or any of the professors see me as a threat, they can get me thrown out. I wouldn't stand a chance..."

"Slughorn wouldn't do that!" Sirius knows this, knows that even if the man is head of Slytherin, he's not the _vindictive_ type...

But then he remembers the fleeting glances he's seen Slughorn send his way when he's paired with Remus, remembers the way his hands shake when Remus turns in their assignment...

Slughorn's _scared._

Of _Remus._

He, Sirius, has never thought to be scared of his friend, even in those first moments after they realized what he was. He's always been his friend, the sickly boy with the quiet voice and the brilliant mind...

But now, he realizes that this—everything—could be taken away from him so easily. It's inconceivable...it doesn't make sense...

"Well, I'll hex the balls off anyone who tries to do that, so there won't be a problem, right?" He doesn't do mushy, and neither does Remus, but with something like this...Sirius feels like Remus needs to hear that they care. He's always so easygoing about everything...except, of course, his condition. He needs to know that they'll stick with him no matter what, no matter who stands in their way...

Sirius means every word he said, and he's not going to stop there. "Right, you go lay down by the fire—I'll finish this for you. Just copy it out in your own writing so Sluggy doesn't get suspicious, right?"

Both Remus and Peter look genuinely surprised by his offer, and he knows he's never really done such a thing before...but Remus deserves it.

And Sirius knows, as Remus makes his way toward an empty couch with a smile and grateful eyes, that he made the right decision.


	5. Fray

**V. Fray  
><strong>_-—All Peter knows is that James is screaming...and it's the worst sound he's ever heard.  
>May, 1979<em>

* * *

><p>It's Hell on Earth...that's the only way Peter can describe it.<p>

He's not sure he can handle this, the cursing and fighting and dying all around him. They had all joined the Order right out of Hogwarts; James and Sirius had even put their Auror dreams on hold to help the resistance. It's the right thing to do—Voldemort is something straight out of his childhood nightmares—but Peter knows he's not cut out for this. He's always been rubbish at duelling, has always been better at planning and letting others do the work, but that isn't an option anymore. This is _war,_ and their side has few enough fighters as it is...

He's a _Gryffindor,_ dammit, and he's going to act like one...even if all he wants to do is run away with all his friends to somewhere _safe_ and _peaceful_ and _happy._

They're stopping a midnight Death Eater attack on a Muggle village not far from where Remus grew up. He can't see his friend, _any_ of his friends; they've been separated by the tide of battle; he can only pray that they are all right.

A young man—Benjy, he remembers—comes up to help him fight off the pair of men he's up against. He can't see their faces, but one of them sounds like Macnair...one of those who gave them Hell in school. He's outmatched by them, and he knows it, but he also knows that he's not going down without a fight.

(If spending more than seven years with James and Sirius and Remus has taught him anything, it's that he can't give up. _Always keep fighting, always bite back._..and he's going to do that for as long as he possibly can.)

"All right there, Peter?" Benjy yells over the chaos. He's several years older than Peter, with a shock of wild blond hair and a boyish face. They all barely know each other...but war, Peter thinks, brings unlikely strangers together. In this moment, he trusts Benjy Fenwick with his life.

Before he can respond, however, he has to throw up a shield to block a _Crucio_ from Macnair's partner. He lets it drop in time to fire off a hex of his own, too terrified to realize if it connects. Macnair laughs, blasting them with a nasty orange curse that Peter barely dodges... He knows that if this doesn't end soon, he's going to be in big trouble. Even with Benjy's help, he doubts greatly that—

A horribly familiar scream rips through the air, and Peter's world grinds to a halt.

He doesn't remember leaving Benjy as Mad-Eye comes up to help him. He doesn't remember running in a blind rage, pushing people out of the way and dodging blindly as spells hurtle toward him. All he knows is that James is screaming...and it's the worst sound he has ever heard.

He finally arrives to see James writhing on the ground, his wand several feet to the side. Sirius is there, bleeding heavily from a head wound and screaming obscenities and curses at the Death Eater holding the curse... But there are two other men covering him as he focuses his attention on hurting James.

Peter doesn't see Remus running from his right. He doesn't see the jet of green light as it lights up the darkness inches from his nose.

All he sees is cold fury as he runs forward, jumping onto the man's back and jabbing his wand where his eyes should be.

James is screaming.

James is in pain.

His _best friend_ is being _tortured_ by this bastard.

(He may not be a good duelist, but he knows he can do this much.)

The Death Eater is on the ground, now, clutching his face and screaming as blood seeps out of one eye. Peter stuns him for good measure, looking up as Remus conjures a shield around him. A curse bounces off, cracking the barrier, but Peter barely notices. He's running toward James, toward Sirius, trusting Remus to take care of the two Death Eaters he left behind.

_He has to make sure James is all right._ People go _insane_ from the Cruciatus, lose their minds, give up their sanity just to be rid of the pain...and even though he knows James is strong, knows he'll probably be fine... _He has to be sure._

He hears a hoarse yell from behind him as he reaches James; Remus has taken down one of the men. His friend is shaking violently, is soaked in sweat... The hazel eyes that look up at him are very disoriented but reassuringly _alive._

"Are you all right?" He helps James to his feet, his voice shaking with adrenaline-fueled terror. "Do you need—?"

Remus runs up, grabbing James' wand, as the other man falls to the ground. "Nice one, Peter!" he says, and his eyes are warm and proud as he tosses the wand toward them. He takes a defensive position next to Sirius and pulls up several powerful shields before turning—"Marlene and Lily are on medic duty, you'd better get him out of here—"

Peter hesitates. He doesn't want to leave Sirius and Remus on their own...even though there are other Order members there, people they trust unconditionally, they're nothing compared to their _brothers._ But James seems barely lucid—his mind is intact, but his muscles are spasming and he needs time to recover...

So with one last, worried look at his two friends, he Apparates away.


	6. Motorcycle

**VI. Motorcycle**_  
>-—Sirius gets a new toy.<br>October, 1978_

* * *

><p>"You what, Padfoot?"<p>

The shit-eating grin on the teenager's face grows impossibly wider. "Uncle Alphard gave me all sorts of money—what else was I supposed to do with it?"

James can think of several things Sirius could be spending his estranged family's money on, but decides it would be wise not to say so. After all, this—motorbike, he had called it—is huge, black, sleek...

He has to hand it to the Muggles—they know how to make up for their lack of broomsticks.

This thing is _bad-ass._

"Lily will kill me if I go anywhere near it," he says mildly as he steps forward anyway, admiring the handles, the seat, the designs painted in a dark grey on the sides...

He doesn't even know how to turn the thing on, but he's already decided that he's in love.

(He makes a mental note not to mention this detail to Lily.)

"So let's take it out for a ride!" Sirius unceremoniously throws the helmets to the side, sitting astride the monstrosity and gesturing for James to join him. He shrugs, grins, and rumples his hair for good measure before hopping on behind his friend. Lily would kill him; Remus would sigh and shake his head; Peter would laugh; but there's only two seats, anyway, and they get little enough free time as it is. They _deserve_ this little outing.

(He still reminds himself to pick up some chocolates for Lily on his way home, just in case.)

"Air or roads?" Sirius asks, turning around and grinning wider. "This thing can hit upwards of two hundred kilometers per hour—that's faster than any broomstick I've ever seen..."

James feels a mad smile growing across his own face. "You know the answer to that, Padfoot."

"Right then!" He revs the engine, turning a key below the handles, and laughs before kicking off. They're in the air, rising and rising and rising and _oh this is glorious_ and _screw broomsticks I need one of these_ and he laughs, trusting the anti-gravity charms to keep him settled in his seat as he raises his arms to the sky. It's just like riding a broomstick—_just_ like it—except he's riding pillion with his best friend and the motorbike's roaring loudly and he's moving faster than he ever has in his life—

Somehow, this exhilaration, this adrenaline, is allowing him to forget the war raging on the ground below. Even if there's an Order meeting in two hours that they need to attend, even if the world is falling to pieces all around them... He can leave that all behind, if only for a moment. This little pocket of happiness is exactly what James needs right now.

Maybe...maybe it'll keep him sane. Maybe it'll get him through this war.

(If only it could keep them all alive.)


	7. Tapestry

**VII. Tapestry**_  
>-—Regulus follows in his brother's footsteps.<br>December, 1976_

* * *

><p>The house feels dead in the hours after Sirius leaves.<p>

Regulus knows better than to go downstairs; though Sirius is gone, has stomped out of the house with scarcely a jumper to protect him from the December cold, his mother has not stopped screaming. He wonders vaguely if she even realizes that her son has left.

(He loves his mother. He loves her because that is the right thing to do, and because now that Sirius is no longer part of the family, he is the rightful heir to the Black family name.)

He loves his mother because it is expected of him, but he's not sure he loves her the way he _should_. He sees the way the Muggle children in town cling to their parents, stare up at them with love and adoration in their eyes, and he knows he does not feel that way about his own mother and father. His mother, loud and insane and tyrannical, would not stand for such clinginess; his father, quiet and dangerous and no less idealistic, would hand him over to Dark wizards for even _thinking_ of acting like such scum. But he can't forget...he can't forget because he's realized...

If anything, he feels that way for _Sirius._

In their childhood, Sirius was always the one to pull him around behind him; Sirius was always the one with the harebrained schemes; Sirius was the rule-breaker and the rebel and the golden child, because he was the eldest and the one destined to become the head of the family.

Before he went off to Hogwarts, nobody spared a glance for Regulus in favor of fawning over his brother.

But he didn't care...not really. Because Sirius always complained about the parties, the stuffy robes and the meetings he had to go to, because they were just so _boring,_ and who cares about that kind of stuff anyway? So Regulus never gave it another thought, because if Sirius said it was useless then it must be so.

And then he went off to school and was sorted into _Gryffindor, _and all Hell broke loose.

Suddenly, Sirius was the pariah, because he _embraced_ the house he was sorted into; he made friends with Mudbloods and blood traitors and all sorts of unthinkable monsters. And Regulus knows no different, because _he's_ the golden boy now and _he's_ the favored son, so he goes along with everything his parents say, agrees with all their bigotry and all their lies, because he sees the rage directed at his older brother and would do anything not to have that inflicted upon him.

And when he goes to Hogwarts himself, the next year, he half-expects his brother's friends to be deformed monsters, because that's what his parents have always made them out to be. But as he's sorted into Slytherin, and he looks over to the Gryffindor table, he sees a half-disappointed look on his brother's face, and the three boys surrounding him look no different than him or any of the other people he's ever met. One is sickly, and one is slightly overweight, and one looks like he hasn't brushed his hair in decades...but they're just boys, even if they're _blood traitors_ and _Mudbloods_ and everything else he's been taught to despise.

That, he thinks, was the beginning of the end.

Because now he is fifteen, alone in the house with two parents he doesn't really know, and he half-wishes he had run away with Sirius. Sirius, he thinks, would understand how he feels; even if they haven't gotten along for the past few years—because Sirius has done his best to rebel and Regulus has done his best to fit into the mold—he's sure that if he explained everything, his brother would understand. He's sure this emptiness, this hunger and this _need for something more_ are what Sirius has felt all his life, are what prompted him to finally leave this damned family behind...and Regulus wishes with all his heart that he is strong enough to do the same.

(But he's not, because he doesn't have Sirius' guts and Sirius' charisma and Sirius' _bravery,_ so he sits at home like a good little boy and does exactly what he's told.)

He hears his mother stomping up the stairs, now, and he knows she's heading for the family tree, to blast his brother's name into oblivion. Others have gone before—Andromeda, he knows, is marrying a Muggleborn. (While he'll never say it aloud, Regulus thinks that Ted seems like a very nice man.) A few aunts and uncles have supported the wrong organization, the wrong Minister...

There are so many lines he needs to toe, so many people he has to obey, that Regulus won't be surprised if he ends up being blasted off as well.

There is a small explosion, and then finally, blessed silence. After what he judges to be a sufficient amount of time, he makes his way to the drawing room to view the aftermath, to see what has become of his brother's name on the old and _glorious_ tapestry his mother is so proud of.

She is not there—has likely retreated downstairs to drink—so he steps closer, inspecting the bottom of the tapestry, where he knows his and Sirius' names lie...

And when he finds it, when he finds the charred circle where his brother once stood, tall and proud just like the man the words represented...he feels a powerful, irrational surge of grief. Sirius is _gone._ And even if he is still physically alive, will probably go live with James or Remus or Peter and be none the worse for wear, he is dead to Regulus, because...

Because...

He knows, with sudden clarity, that they will never speak to each other again. No matter how much Regulus hopes and prays that Sirius will understand, that he will take him under his wing if he confesses that he feels just the same about their family... He knows that there is already too much between them to repair, that the chasm is too great to cross, and no matter how many miracles Sirius can perform, Regulus knows this isn't one of them.

So he looks at the tapestry one last time, _(pretends his eyes aren't watering because he misses his big brother),_ and turns away.

He will never look at it again.

(But the pain of his loss, he knows, will never go away.)


	8. Bravado

**VIII. Bravado**  
><em>-—James will never let on that he is scared to death.<br>June, 1978_

* * *

><p>James doesn't want to admit it, but he's scared.<p>

It's their last week at Hogwarts — they should be celebrating. They should be smuggling Firewhiskey; they should be toasting to their freedom and their lives beyond school...

(But they all know the truth; they all know what's lurking beyond these walls. And because of this, they don't know how many of them will have lives after Hogwarts at all.)

The Great Hall should be bustling with life and cheer and joy, because they're _finally adults_ and they're going out to the _real world,_ which upon any other occasion would be massively monumental...

But to James, it sounds like a death sentence.

Dumbledore has, of course, talked to all of them already. The five of them—Caradoc Dearborn from Ravenclaw—Hestia Jones from Hufflepuff—and he promises there are more, _older,_ witches and wizards ready to fight with them. Dumbledore has assured them that they are not alone, that strong friends are protecting them...

And James knows this is what needs to be done. Lord Voldemort is gaining power by the day; people are dying by the hundreds; if they don't stop him, who will?

But _hell,_ he's eighteen years old! The Order of the Phoenix is the only thing standing between Great Britain and total destruction, and though he knows he must do this _(he must)_, Dumbledore says he will be a key player...he doesn't even know what he's doing...

This is a _militia_ group, and James isn't stupid; he knows they're going to be called on to fight battles that they can never win. He knows that they will be expected to die to save millions of people they don't know, millions of people who will never know them and their sacrifice. And he wishes that he could say that he doesn't care—that he's fine with throwing his life away for the greater good, because that sounds exactly like something a Gryffindor should do, but...

_He doesn't want to die._

He's only eighteen; he's barely out of school. He and Lily are already talking of marriage; Sirius and Remus and Peter are still as good of friends as ever. How could he leave them so soon? How could _any _of them die so young? He knows they are in the middle of a war; he knows death is going to be a normal part of his life in a matter of weeks; but he's sure he'll never let himself get used to it.

Life is precious. No matter whose life it is—no matter how weak and small—there is nobody in this world that is not important.

It's just that his friends—his _family_—have always seemed so much more so than the others...

He knows that's selfish; he knows that's not a Gryffindor quality at all and he should be ashamed of himself; but is it so bad to wish your family safe? If nothing else, it is primal instinct, screaming and clawing at whatever threatens your pack, your family, your _blood. _Sirius and Lily and Remus and Peter are all he has, now; he doesn't know what he'll do if he loses them.

(_Hunt down their murderers and rip them apart piece by piece, relishing in their screams and hoping this will fill the empty hole in his soul—)_

He's a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors are strong and brave and fearless and they _always_ do the right thing. He doesn't want to be scared; he doesn't want to be a coward; he's been brought up as a child of scarlet and gold, and he will be one to the last.

And even if he's scared out of his mind, he won't let it on, because he can't allow the others to worry when there is so much more to be anxious about.

So he will square his shoulders and face this war head-on; he will chance whatever he has to to keep his family safe; he will fight and kill and die in the name of freedom _(how ironic,_ he thinks, but he doesn't care anymore), if only to keep them all alive.

He'll save them. He'll save _all_ of them.

He'll make sure of it.


	9. Blackboard

**IX. Blackboard  
><strong>-—_Professor Binns looks a bit different today.  
>November, 1974<em>

* * *

><p>Sirius hates History class.<p>

Of course, so does everyone else. Binns is a nice guy (if rather old), but he's just so _boring._ Seriously, sitting at the podium and just reading out of the book all class? It's the quickest and most efficient way to fall asleep that Hogwarts has ever known.

Obviously, there are the few people who actually try to stay awake and pay attention. Snivellus is always so attentive to the lecture, his greasy nose barely missing the parchment as he copies down every word. Sirius would make fun of him all class if he didn't doze off.

Even Remus doesn't bother to try and pay attention anymore; he's usually either doing homework for other classes or getting caught up on sleep, especially around the full moon... As he puts it, "We can just read the textbook later, on our own time. There's no point in listening to him talk."

(That's implying, of course, that Sirius even knows what a textbook is. He has a vague idea—he's seen them often enough while Remus or Lily is studying—but he hasn't seen one up close in years.)

(He'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much.)

And so the four of them walk into History class, dreading every second of the lecture. They always sit in the back (James swears the chairs are more comfortable there) and don't even bother pulling out parchment and quill; Remus drops his bag on the desk, planning to use it as a makeshift pillow; Peter buries his head in his arms, trying to find a comfortable position; Sirius and James share a glance, deciding whether to goof off or sleep all class.

It's a tough decision, but they finally decide to sleep. After all, they've been up working on their Animagi transformations for the past week, and they could use the shut-eye.

So Sirius mirrors Remus, unceremoniously throwing his bag onto the desk and planning on getting a good hour and a half of sleep before Transfiguration starts. (McGonagall will skin him if he sleeps in her class, after all.) Before he can properly doze off, however, someone screams and falls out of his chair near the front.

Sirius' head snaps up. They hadn't planned any pranks for today; there was nothing out of the ordinary in the classroom when they walked in; what...?

His gaze finds the front of the room, where Snivellus is slowly picking himself up off the floor and not looking away from the blackboard. Sirius is ready with some smart-mouthed comment about Snape's arse, but as he follows his line of sight, all rational thought flees his brain like Snape flees from shampoo.

There is a _head._ Sticking out of the _blackboard._

And it's not just any head.

It's Binns'.

Sirius is wide awake now, gaping with mouth wide open as the Binns-ghost phases the rest of the way through the blackboard, glancing around at the class. "Excellent, you all are here. Perkins, would you mind shutting the door...?"

James, who has long-since been known as Perkins to Binns (and occasionally Sirius, when he's in a joking mood—which is always), stands up slowly and heads toward the door, staring at Binns all the while. Everyone else in the class is giving their professor the fish-eye, because he just became a goddamn _ghost_ overnight and what the hell are they supposed to do?

Binns starts his lecture as if nothing is out of the ordinary, not once glancing up from his textbook or giving any sort of indication that he realizes that he's a ghost. Usually, by this time, most of the class would be asleep...but Sirius doesn't think they've all been so awake during History in _years_.

"Should...should we tell someone?" Evans whispers from her seat next to Snivellus, her brow scrunched in alarm. "Dumbledore—McGonagall—"

Sirius glances dubiously up at the professor, who is droning on as always. He's totally oblivious to their terror, and Sirius wonders vaguely if he would notice if they all just up and left. "I'm...not sure he knows he's a ghost," he says finally. Dying was one thing; Binns was old—older even than Dumbledore—but this is just _beyond bizarre. _Surely, you would _notice_ something like that?

Their dilemma is resolved, though, when the classroom door slams open, and McGonagall runs in. Her face is pasty white and her glasses are askew; her eyes lock immediately onto Professor Binns, who seems unaware of her entrance.

"Cuthbert!" She sounds alarmed—more alarmed that Sirius has ever heard her—and he would probably laugh if this situation wasn't so horrifying. "Cuthbert, is that you?"

By some miracle, Binns actually looks up, squinting at McGonagall through his tiny—ghostly—glasses. "Yes, Minerva. Did you need something?"

"You—but—" Her eyes are impossibly wide as she stares around at the class. "He just came in like this?"

"Through the blackboard, Professor," Mary Macdonald supplies helpfully. "We were gonna come and get you but..."

"You are dismissed," she says hurriedly, waving them all toward the door. None of them need to be told twice; they've vacated the room within seconds, standing awkwardly outside as if not sure what to do. Their professor is _dead,_ for Merlin's sake; this doesn't even make sense... What's supposed to happen now?

_Well,_ Sirius admits as they finally disperse to their common rooms, _that was weird._

* * *

><p><em><em>So apparently Binns was born in the 16th century and died sometime in the 17th or 18th...but this has been my headcanon for too many years, and I'm not gonna give it up now XD<em>_


	10. Crest

**X. Crest**  
><em>-—Sirius decides to prove his mother wrong.<em>  
><em>August, 1971<em>

* * *

><p>"Put the Slytherin crest on everything. He's a <em>Black—<em>I don't care if he's not been sorted yet—he won't be going anywhere else."

Sirius sighs heavily and sits down on a chair near the door in Madam Malkin's, half-listening to his mother's irate conversation with the seamstress.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but we're not supposed to do anything to first years' robes—they change automatically once they're sorted into their House—"

"I don't care what you're supposed to do! You will put the crest and the green trim on those robes, or I will take my business elsewhere!"

The young assistant glances at Sirius—he mouths "I'm sorry," but he's not sure if she understands—and calls to the back—"Madam Malkin, if you could come here a moment—"

Sirius' mother taps her foot impatiently, but she does not move while the squat shop owner hurries to the front. "What seems to be the problem?"

There's another large row that Sirius decides not to pay attention to; instead, he turns toward the small family who has just entered the shop, looking nervously at the commotion. They don't look well-off; the boy is scrawny with a pale face and a mop of brownish hair, and his parents look exhausted and worn.

"You might want to come back later," Sirius mutters to them, standing up and trying desperately not to catch his mother's attention. "Mum'll be at this for a while—she loves to argue."

All three of them jump, as if surprised that he's addressing them. "Who might you be, young man?" the father asks, raising an eyebrow as his gaze snaps from Sirius to his son. "A first year?"

"Yeah, and my mum wants them to give me the Slytherin robes..." He makes a face, and though the boy (he's very small, now that Sirius gets a good look at him) shrinks away, the woman only smiles.

"Well, you could always just agree with her now, and get someone to change them at school if you end up being sorted elsewhere."

He blinks at her in surprise; he didn't think he had been _that_ obvious that he didn't want to be sorted into Slytherin... He's always been vaguely put off by the way his family treats others, the way nearly everyone turns up their nose at the mention of Muggles. But he's never mentioned such a thing before, to anyone, because he knows the consequences will be dire.

"Remus here is a first year as well," she continues, pulling him into a one-armed hug and smiling. "Maybe you'll be in the same house? And thanks for the advice—we'll come back after we get a wand, how does that sound?"

Sirius shrugs, glancing over to his mother. "I never know with her. Just see if she's still in here on your way down the street."

"Thanks, honey," she smiles, and Sirius can't help but smile as well; something about her kind face—so different from his own mother's—is infectious. "And don't let yourself get sorted somewhere you don't want to, all right?"

He nods, his grin growing wider, as the three of them make their way to the door. The boy—Remus—turns right before they leave, staring at Sirius for a moment with large amber eyes. Sirius waves (because the kid looks like he could definitely use some cheer in his life), and Remus waves back, a small smile forming on his lips.

As Sirius makes his way over to his mother, prepared to stop this ridiculous argument however he can, he hopes that he is sorted into the same house as that boy. The only kids he's ever been allowed to interact with are his cousins and other _pureblood_ children, and he can barely stand the way they're so prim and proper. But Remus...somehow, he seems different.

And he realizes, now, that he _absolutely cannot wait_ to get to Hogwarts.


	11. Options

**XI. Options**_  
>-—Remus doesn't see a point to his career advice appointment.<br>March, 1976_

* * *

><p>Remus trudges his way toward McGonagall's office, knowing exactly what is in store for him once he arrives. The other fifth years have been discussing this for weeks, reading through pamphlets and talking excitedly about whether they'll get an O.W.L. in this class, whether they should take this or that or...<p>

But in the end, for him, it doesn't matter. Nobody will hire him, anyway.

He arrives at 3:30, right on time, to see McGonagall look up at him with a smile. "Mister Lupin, please, shut the door," she says, gesturing to the chair before her desk. "We have much to discuss..."

He heaves a heavy sigh, doing as he is told before falling heavily into the chair. She might as well just dismiss him and get it over with; even if he graduates from Hogwarts with top marks, 12 O.W.L.s and 12 N.E.W.T.s and a recommendation from Dumbledore himself...

It'll all be useless in the end.

"Looking at your grades, you excel in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms, it seems," she begins when he says nothing. "You are also doing very well in Transfiguration and Arithmancy, though your Potions grade leaves something to be desired..."

He almost laughs. Potions...not his best subject. (It doesn't help that Slughorn seems to be scared shitless of him.) And then he does laugh, because she's acting like any of this will actually _matter._

"I know you spend a lot of time tutoring the younger students, and you're a very driven young man. Do you have any idea of what you would like to do once you leave Hogwarts, Mister Lupin? There are several options available to—"

"Professor," he cuts her off abruptly, sinking lower into his chair. "Why are you wasting your time with me?"

Her eyes shoot up to meet his, surprise written across her face. "I'm not sure I understand, Mister Lupin."

"Do you actually expect me to get a _job_ once I'm out of here? Do you actually expect someone to _hire_ me?"

He hasn't brought this up—with his parents, with his friends, with _anyone._ It's a non-topic; they all know the truth, but nobody is willing to discuss it. He's been acting normal around James and Sirius and Peter, because he knows they'd bash him over the head if they heard his thoughts on the matter, but this has been bothering him for weeks.

He'll have seven years of happiness. He'll have seven years where he can be happy and have friends and actually pretend to be _normal._

But the legislation getting pushed through the Wizengamot isn't pretty, and pretty soon he'll have to have "WEREWOLF" stamped across the top of his resume in great red letters. And who would hire such a monster? He knows he wouldn't.

Nobody talks about it, but everyone knows the truth. Remus knows James and Sirius have aspirations of becoming Aurors; Peter wants to go into spell research. They don't gush about it as others do, because they know Remus' situation and they know how much it would hurt him. He would _love_ to be a teacher... But he can't dwell on dreams, now can he? He has to be realistic. No headmaster in his right mind would ever hire a werewolf to teach young, impressionable _children._

"Remus," McGonagall says quietly, breaking him out of her thoughts. Her papers lay abandoned on her desk, now, and she leans forward to give him her full attention. "Dumbledore has been through this with several employers. As long as you keep your marks high enough, and he vouches for you, they say they won't have a problem hiring you once you have left school."

"Yeah, they say that now..." He can't bring himself to look her in the eye. McGonagall—stoic, unmovable McGonagall—actually looks worried for him. But he doesn't want her pity; he doesn't want anyone's pity. He just wants to get on with his life—whatever's left of it, of course.

She is silent for a moment; he imagines her eyebrows are furrowed in thought, in confusion, in worry. He doesn't know. He just wants to get out of here before this meeting turns any worse. He's just wasting her time, anyway. She could already be moving onto the next student...Mary, if he remembered the list correctly...

She sighs heavily, leaning back a bit in her chair. "Mister Pettigrew was in here earlier...he said I may have a problem with you."

_"Peter?"_ Of all three of his friends, Remus least expects Peter to discuss something like that with McGonagall. He isn't sure whether he should be touched or annoyed; he settles for an incredulous expression, staring across the desk at the professor. "What'd he say about me?"

"He said you've just about beaten yourself to death over this ever since the pamplets got sent out, and that you think you'll never be able to become a teacher." Remus opens his mouth to cut in, feeling suddenly outraged, but she continues over him—"And I can assure you that if you ever desire to fill an empty position at Hogwarts, you will have no trouble getting the job."

He can only gape at her for a moment. Her tone had left no room for argument, and her expression is deadly serious; she stares at him from behind her sharp glasses, obviously waiting for a reply. "But...the parents...they'd never let their kids—"

"And there are things that only the staff needs to be privy to, should someone with a serious medical condition be hired," she finishes for him, the barest hint of a smile on her face. "If I may speak plainly, Mister Lupin, I think you would make a wonderful professor, especially for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Wait a few years after you leave school, when perhaps all these attacks die down a bit..." Her eyes flash, as if there is more she isn't saying, but she doesn't give him a chance to ask, "and I'm sure Albus will not have a problem hiring you."

He's struck dumb for a moment; this is every one of his wildest hopes coming true; he can barely believe it... This can't possibly be happening...something like this, something like _him_ being hired at _Hogwarts? _Has McGonagall lost her mind—? "And as for your grades, I might suggest asking Miss Evans for help with Potions, but everything else seems to be in order. And unless there is anything else...I believe it is time for Miss Macdonald's appointment, so I must bid you good day, Mister Lupin."

Remus is vaguely aware that his mouth is hanging open, but he doesn't even have the presence of mind to shut it. There is a very small smile on McGonagall's face as she continues, "You'll attract flies like that, Remus. Please, don't be so surprised. There are still good people in the world."

He makes a concerted effort to move his jaw as he walks toward the door, barely managing to make himself form words. "Thanks a lot, Professor."

Her smile grows wider. "Of course, Mister Lupin."


	12. Strange

**XII. Strange**_  
>-—Minerva doesn't think she'll ever understand those four boys.<br>May, 1978_

* * *

><p>She sees Potter and Black and Pettigrew conversing quietly in the back of the classroom, sees Lupin's conspicuous absence, sees the way worry floods their faces and how Black—annoying, thickheaded, uncaring Sirius Black—actually looks alarmed.<p>

She wonders but does not ask, because they've known for years about Lupin's condition. They found out in their second year...They've long since accepted him for the boy he truly is, and the four of them have been thick as thieves ever since.

The pranks they pull are infamous; Minerva can't even count the number of times one of them has been in her office, dutifully writing lines or being told off for something else they've done wrong. And she knows their lives aren't perfect; she knows Black's family is hateful at best and Potter's parents were deeply involved in the brewing war and Pettigrew's mother is negligent and Lupin suffers such horrific pain _every month,_ but they're students all the same, and she doesn't think they'd appreciate being treated any differently just because there's a little trouble in their lives. So she punishes them just the same as any other, treats them like they're not her own children…when in reality, all she can see are four little boys, lost and alone at the start of their first year.

(But she says nothing, because she knows they would hate it. She can almost hear Lupin rebuke her—"C'mon, Professor, I'm not the only one with problems…")

She sees the trouble brewing just below the surface, watches this self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort rise to power, but she can do nothing about it because what is she, in the end? She's a Transfiguration professor—the head of Gryffindor house, yes—a fighter, yes—but she has students to protect, a school to defend if need be, and there is no place for someone such as her on the front lines.

But maybe, she thinks, there is a place for four lost boys only trying to find their places in the world.

The idea of sending such young men into battle, to be wounded and maimed and _killed_, is so horrific that she barely gives it a thought. She can't even imagine the four of them in death; Potter's everlasting grin—Black's careless grace—Lupin's calming smile—Pettigrew's optimistic eyes…they would all be gone…forever.

She does not want to think about it—_cannot_ think about it, not without making herself physically ill. They are only seventeen, still barely out of childhood, and war is no place for children. But no matter how disgusting, no matter how unthinkable and terrible and wrong it is, there is no one left to fight but those who should be protected.

She hates the thought of sending these children to war; she hates it, despises it with all her being, but when Dumbledore comes to her one evening, asks her quietly if she could scout out any seventh years who may be willing and able to join a resistance group once they leave Hogwarts…her mind immediately jumps to the four boys in the back of the classroom, full of laughter and pranks and darkness and fear.

She knows she doesn't understand their friendship, not really; she knows there are glances, silent conversations that she can't hope to decode. But she also knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that even if Black would be fighting against his own blood, and Potter would be throwing himself into the war that killed his parents, and Pettigrew would be destroying his defensive shell beyond repair, and Lupin would be ignoring the pacifism he's worked so hard to maintain…they will agree without a second thought. Because their eyes are hardened and aged, far more than they should be; she's seen the way they glance through the newspaper every morning, has watched as their eyes droop and their lungs sigh and their hands fold the paper down and away, because _too many_ are dying and there's not a damn thing any of them can do to stop it.

(They think that they _could_ do something, if only they were given the chance. She has that opportunity, has it wrapped and polished and ready to present to them…but war is a whole different Hell from what they know now, and she's not sure she could bear seeing those youthful faces lose even more than they already have.)

She knows what she must do, even as she watches the three boys in the back of the classroom. She sees the dark bruises under their eyes, the listlessness and the exhaustion (and the deep gouges across Black's collarbone that his rumpled uniform doesn't quite cover) and she knows that she doesn't understand these boys. She doesn't understand their relationships with each other and their classmates and the world at large, but she hopes she understands enough about them to prove herself correct. (And at the same time, she begs her instincts to be wrong.)

And when she calls them up after class, when Black struts up like nothing's bothering him and Potter sends her that lopsided grin and Pettigrew follows a bit behind, his hands in his pockets and gaze trained at the floor, she knows the answer even before she asks the question.

(And they do as well.)

She just wishes they didn't.


	13. Nightmare

**XIII. Nightmare**_  
>-—Remus wakes up screaming.<br>September, 1971_

* * *

><p>It's the middle of the night, someone is screaming, and James doesn't know what is going on.<p>

Hell, they've only been at Hogwarts for a _week!_ He barely knows these three boys he's going to live with for the next seven years. All he knows is that Sirius never shuts up, Peter never talks, and Remus actually believes in doing his homework.

(They seem weird…nice enough, though. But he doesn't know any of them well enough to know why someone would be screaming bloody murder at three in the morning.)

He waits a moment to see if it will quiet down, because he really is exhausted…but if anything, the terrified cries only increase in volume. And he's pretty sure that's Remus' voice… So he pulls himself out of bed (Sirius and Peter sleep like boulders, apparently. Lucky blokes) and hurries himself over to his roommate's bed, pulling aside the curtain.

The waxing moon illuminates the boy's sweat-soaked face in sharp contrast: his eyes are squeezed shut and his mouth is contorted into the greatest expression of pain James has ever seen. He's thrashing in his sheets, throwing them to the floor…and now that James is closer, he realizes that the boy's screams are made of words.

_"No! Get away—please—I don't want to die—"_

James has no idea what is going on, has no idea what the kid could possibly be dreaming about, but he acts without thinking. He grabs Remus' shoulders harshly, shaking him until his eyes snap open.

(He has to suppress a shudder—in the moonlight, they look an eerie, unearthly yellow.)

Those eyes are terrifyingly blank, though, and James wonders for one long, horrible second whether the boy has lost his mind… (Which, in retrospect, is ridiculous. But in those few seconds, alone in the middle of the night with a boy he barely knows, he can't help but wonder…)

But then Remus' eyes relax, the panic on his face fades, and he finally _(finally)_ focuses on James' face. "…Wha…?"

"You—you were having a nightmare. I think." James doesn't really know what to say, now that he's stopped the kid from screaming; he has no idea what to do with this situation. So he claps the boy on the shoulder (he flinches, and James wonders but does not ask) and says, "You gonna be all right?"

"Uh…yeah. I think so…"

James realizes, suddenly, just how _exhausted_ Remus Lupin looks. It's strange, because he goes to bed before any of them; he doesn't run around the castle at top speed like he and Sirius do, trying to learn as much of the layout as they can. All he does is go to class, eat meals in the Great Hall, and stay in the common room.

(He looks ill, though…maybe he simply _can't_ do those kinds of things.)

James has never met anyone who's chronically sick, has never had anything worse than a mild case of dragon pox when he was eight…he's never even thought about it, not until now…when he realizes that one of his roommates may simply feel sick _all the time._

He can't even imagine…

But Remus is sitting up now, holding his head, and obviously doing his best to smile at James. "Thanks…thanks for waking me up…"

"No problem," he says immediately, because even if it was at first, he knows now that a bit of inconvenience for him is nothing compared to this. "Just scared the hell out of me, is all…"

Remus' eyes fall, staring at his lap. "I'm sorry…it's just, sometimes…"

"Seriously, mate, don't worry about it." James reaches up to ruffle Remus' hair, but thinks better of it after remembering the boy's flinch earlier. "That's what friends are for right? We're living with each other for the next seven years—might as well stick together, huh?"

Remus only stares at him for a moment, and James wonders suddenly if maybe he was too forward. He's always been bad at that, and he knows it, but it's not like there's anything he can do about it. He just…can't understand others' emotions properly, no matter how hard he tries.

But then his face splits into a small smile, a genuine one this time, and he nods. "Yeah, I guess. You'll just have to put up with me."

James laughs outright this time, perhaps a bit too loud for the late hour, but he does not care. As he waves to Remus, walking back over to his own bed across the room, he wonders. Remus is strange; there's no denying that. There's obviously something going on…but he seems nice enough, and he's a _Gryffindor_, so he can't be too bad, right?

(But he'd be lying if he said he didn't wonder what the poor kid was dreaming about.)


	14. How

**XIV. How**_  
>-—Peter is desperate to save his friends.<br>September, 1980_

* * *

><p>This war, Peter thinks, is driving him mad faster than any physical torture ever could.<p>

He's not cut out for this, for _any_ of this. He can't fight, he's not willing to die…not really. He wants to do the right thing, wants to be a true Gryffindor because that's what James and Sirius and Remus would be proud of, but he just _can't._ He can't do field missions without suffering a near-mental breakdown; he can't plan things because _what if he messes up_ and _what if people die_?

He's useless, an utterly pathetic excuse for a human being, but he's so desperate to see the end of this war, to make sure his _friends_ survive…

He just doesn't know _how._

He's barely twenty years old, damnit! He's still a child! (Or, at least, not enough of an adult to be of any use.) He doesn't know what he'll do if his friends are killed in this war that they're so desperate to fight, but he wishes with everything he has that Voldemort had simply _never existed._ Maybe then, he could be happy.

(Maybe then, he would stop making these terrible mistakes.)

Because as much as he hates it, as much as he knows that there are probably better, _braver_ ways to do this, his mind is spiraling and his soul is crushed and he _just can't do this anymore._

So as his friends lose sleep and worry and fret and _James' baby has become a target_ and he knows there's no other way to keep them safe, he sneaks away in the dead of night and finds Lucius Malfoy.

(He looks surprised, more than anything. Surprised that the fat little boy he used to give hell in school would come talking to him. But he doesn't draw his wand—probably doesn't see him as much of a threat, Peter realizes—and asks him coolly what he thinks he's doing here.)

And so he opens his mouth, because even if this will destroy him, destroy everything he's tried to build up and everything he's been working for his entire life, _it will keep them safe_ and that's all he cares about anymore.

He opens his mouth and asks to join, and the world comes crashing down.


	15. Smoke

**XV. Smoke**_  
>-—By the time Sirius arrives, he is far too late.<br>October, 1981_

* * *

><p>Sirius has always loved Halloween.<p>

It's given them all an excuse to wreak havoc, to dress up, to do whatever they want and blame it on the holiday. He's always enjoyed scaring the living shit out of others, and Halloween gives him a reason to do just that…

But these last few years, since they've left Hogwarts…it hasn't been the same.

They've faced war and horror and death; they've fought and killed and nearly died…and, somehow, that leaves them all so changed that the idea of a holiday _based_ on that leaves a sour taste in their mouths. The day that Sirius once anticipated months in advance, that day at the end of October where all Hell was bound to break loose…

(He's already been through Hell—_true_ Hell—and he thinks he'd rather be innocent of such things.)

It's not like they can celebrate, anyway, not when there's a war looming over their heads and the Potters (his best friends—_his best friends)_ are in hiding and Remus may or may not have turned…

And Peter. Sirius has known Peter for ten years, now, met him that first night at the Opening Feast…and he's always known that Peter hates conflict of any kind. He avoids arguments at all costs, tries to mend rifts between friends like his life depends on it…

And Sirius has never really understood that mentality (perhaps it's because he's always thrived on conflict, lived for the fights he has with his parents), but he's _tried._ He doesn't get into stupid arguments with him like he does with James and Remus; they're not just stupid and irrelevant to him. Somehow, for some reason, they mean so much more to him, and if you catch him at the wrong moment, he just can't handle it.

And that's why Sirius admires Peter so much; he joined the Order, has fought the Death Eaters right alongside the rest of them even though that's the one thing he's spent his entire life trying to avoid. He's a Gryffindor, but he's a different brand than Sirius; he's one of the ones who could have been a Hufflepuff, had he not been so willing to do anything to protect his friends.

(He doesn't understand Peter's mindset, but he admires him so much, because Sirius isn't sure he's that strong…)

(He truly wonders how he does it.)

That's why he suggested that Peter be James' Secret Keeper; he may not seem as brave as the stupid Gryffindors or the rash Gryffindors or the violent Gryffindors, but somehow, Sirius thinks the quiet Gryffindors might be the strongest of them all. They may not seem as much, though, so Voldemort won't suspect him; he keeps a low profile like it's the last thing he has left, so he won't attract attention to himself and get himself kidnapped…

But he's seen the way Peter's losing weight, sees the way dark circles are ringing his eyes and knows that if this war isn't resolved soon, one way or the other…Peter will not be okay. Full-scale war is no place for someone like him, yet he perseveres through the battles and the deaths and the fire and the destruction, because that's just the kind of person he is.

And that's why, tonight, Sirius Apparates outside of Peter's hole-in-the-wall flat, warded with so many charms that it's nearly impossible to find. He goes to check on his friend because he's been isolated all week, ever since he became the Secret Keeper; they all agreed that visiting him would be too dangerous…

But Sirius knows that if Peter has anything in common with him, it's the fact that he can't be alone…and he knows all too well the terrible pit of dread that forms in your stomach when you haven't spoken to another human being for too long. So he defies logic, defies common sense, and finds himself at Peter's door.

But when he knocks, yells a security question through the door and pulls out his wand just in case _(he feels naked without it—_he can't imagine how the Muggles cope), there is no answer from inside. He waits several seconds, trying to push down the panic swelling in his throat, because _you're overreacting_ and _he's probably just sleeping, look how late it is_ and _stop worrying, nobody would ever suspect Peter_, but he can't shake the idea that something is wrong…

(And he knows Peter hardly ever sleeps anymore, just like the rest of them, so there's no reason for him not to answer the door.)

So with another yelled warning—"_It's Sirius, don't kill me!"_—he kicks the door in with one booted foot, holds his wand out in front of him to defend against any oncoming curses, scans the room for any sign of a threat…

But there's nothing there. _There's nothing there._

Peter is under strict orders not to leave—he _swore_ he'd stay put until they figured something out, until the danger was past. The flat only has one room and the bathroom, and the door to the toilet is hanging wide open, obviously empty…

_This isn't right…_

Heart pounding, hands shaking so badly he can barely keep a hold on his wand, he does one last glance through the apartment _(maybe if he stares hard enough, Peter will appear, grinning apologetically for stealing James' Cloak back from Dumbledore)_ before rushing out again, past the Apparition boundary, and sending himself immediately to Godric's Hollow.

_How can this be happening?_

He's one of the few who was told the address; he and Peter and the Potters themselves are the only ones who are supposed to be able to see James' house. But the air feels wrong; the atmosphere that should be thrumming with magic feels empty and silent and _dead…_

_What's wrong? Why can't he get enough breath?_

He's staring down the road toward where he knows the Potters' house stands, and there's something in the sky that he vehemently denies is the smoke that comes with fire. He's running, even before he's realized exactly what it means; he's sprinting down the road toward that little house he knows and loves, because his eyes are playing tricks on him and _this can't be happening—_

But he knows the truth even before he arrives; he can see that damned mark high in the sky, can see as the Muggles start to come out of their houses, staring at the home _they aren't supposed to be able to see—_

Sirius runs in the front door without hesitation, ignoring the smoke that doesn't seem to have a source, searching desperately for three of the most important people in his life—

But then he steps on something that makes a horrible _crunching_ noise, and he looks down. James' glasses are under his foot, broken and lost long before he arrived…

And then he looks a few feet away, sees a far-too-still man—_boy—_he knows so well…

And his world comes crashing down.


	16. Disease

**XVI. Disease  
><strong>_-—James doesn't agree with a few of his Defense teacher's ideas._  
><em>September, 1975<em>

* * *

><p>James is really getting sick of having a different Defense teacher every year.<p>

Sure, sometimes they luck out—in second year, they had a rather senile old lady who never remembered to assign homework but nevertheless taught them an impressive array of jinxes. In fourth, the professor had been fantastic; he never failed to turn the other way whenever he and Sirius pulled some prank on Snivellus…

This year, though, it doesn't seem that they'll be so lucky.

The four of them walk into the classroom bright and early Tuesday morning for their first class. Peter's rubbing his eyes; Remus is yawning hugely (the full moon's only three days away…of all the days to start with a new professor), and James and Sirius are ready to put this new professor to the test. "Professor Matthews," as he was called at the feast the night before, has close-cropped hair and a muscular build; Dumbledore introduced him as an ex-Auror, and James is excited to see what he's like. After all, with the way the random disappearances around the country are becoming more and more frequent…James thinks he may not want to be a professional Quidditch player, after all.

They sit a few rows ahead of their normal chairs—halfway up the classroom instead of in the very back. James even pulls out quill and parchment. After all, there's no need to get on the bad side of a professor so huge he could probably snap him in half… (And, of course, a letter of recommendation is always helpful to get into the elite Auror department, in three or so years.)

Matthews walks in at nine o'clock on the dot, looking just as alert as he had the night before. He's wearing thick, badass combat boots under his robes, and his dark eyes survey the room quickly as he walks up to his desk.

"There's no need for wands today; we'll only be going over the curriculum. Practical lessons will start on Thursday."

A few half-hearted grumbles fly through the room, but at least they have the promise that they _will_ be learning spells this year… (In third year, their professor had been so jumpy and nervous that he absolutely refused to let any of them draw a wand in class. After a few months, even Sirius had started feeling bad for the guy.)

"Now, as I understand it, you've had a dismally patchwork education at best for the past four years," he says, his eyes sweeping the room again as he walks to the blackboard and starts writing. "I'll be doing my best to make up for lost time. And because Dumbledore says you haven't covered this topic yet—"

He turns from the blackboard, finishing writing with a sharp flourish, and James sees what has been scrawled there in nearly-illegible handwriting:

_DARK CREATURES_

Remus groans from next to him, too quietly for anyone else to hear, and James has to keep himself from patting his friend on the back bracingly. They've been lucky in the past, to not have a (competent) Defense professor study magical creatures in great detail…but it seems that that's all about to change.

But Remus has said in the past that all the professors know about his "furry little problem"—they know to give him at least two days a month to recover (even three or four, depending on how weekends fall and how bad it was that month), and they know they're forbidden to tell anyone about it. Nobody in the past has had a problem with this—Slughorn still seems skittish around him for some reason, but he's kept his mouth shut and not sabotaged Remus' grades, so that's fine by them—so they won't have anything to worry about…

Right?

But something's seemed off about Matthews since he walked into the room, and as he continues to lecture, passing out a syllabus and discussing the grading scale, James realizes…

His eyes are focused _too much_ on Remus.

James sits up a bit straighter, shifting ever so slightly toward his friend and sending a hard glare toward the professor. This has happened, in the past; their skittish third-year professor had nearly had a heart attack when Remus walked into the room the first time. But after a harsh lecture from James and Sirius—and what he suspected were some choice words from Professor McGonagall—he only turned into a rather exaggerated version of Slughorn, avoiding Remus' eyes and never calling on him to answer questions.

(But hey—Remus had been top of Defense class that year, and nobody seemed to be the wiser…so it didn't really matter.)

But Matthews isn't scared of Remus; James can tell that much. The malevolence in his eyes—only truly noticeable if you're looking for it—is concentrated and knowing, and there isn't terror in there so much as pure, unadulterated _loathing._

He knows Sirius sees it too, on Remus' other side; he's sitting up straighter than he ever has, his gaze locked on Matthews like a watchdog and his mouth turned downward in something like disgust. Peter, on James' other side, has not missed it either, if his shaking hands and hard glances toward their professor are anything to go by…

Well, they'll just have to get him straightened out after class. And as much as James hates relying on adults, if they can't do it themselves…they can always ask Dumbledore or McGonagall about it.

(Because no matter how much of an ass he can be—well, all the time—this isn't about him, and the prefect badge shining on his friend's chest shows just how much Professor Dumbledore trusts Remus.)

So they only keep their silent vigil, unnoticeable to those who don't know but clearly apparent to Matthews, who turns his lip up at them but says nothing as he continues about the coursework.

(Usually, James would be complaining about the three-foot essay due every week, but they have other things to worry about right now.)

Matthews is talking, but James doesn't take in any of it…not until they get to the course outline, and he thinks he can hear the steam blowing out of his ears as the man continues,

"Finally, near the end of the year, we will be covering the most dangerous, evil creatures known to wizardkind, including the Lethifold, the vampire…and the werewolf." He pauses, as if for dramatic effect, and sends a derisive glare toward Remus before continuing, "These monsters are lethal at the best of times; in order to learn how to kill them—"

Before James even knows what is happening, his chair has clattered backwards, his wand is in his hand, and it's taking every fiber of self-control he possesses to not curse Matthews on the spot.

"Is there something wrong, Mister Potter?"

He can see every pair of eyes in the classroom trained on him; he can feel Remus tugging on his sleeve and begging him quietly to sit down over the confused murmurs, that _it doesn't matter_ and _you'll just make it worse_ and _I'm used to it, it's okay_…

But it's the last one that sends him over the edge, and all he can think is that _nobody should be used to being hated and threatened and wanted dead _and the words spill out of his mouth before he can even think—"Have you ever met any of those creatures, _professor?_ A vampire or a werewolf?"

"Of course I have," he says, and James knows he's being blown off as the man continues, "I worked as an Auror for thirty years—I've lost count of how many of them I've killed—"

The curse is out of James' mouth before he even realizes what is happening, and people scream and duck under their chairs and Remus and Peter yank James down by the sleeves as the curse rebounds back toward him—_of course, of __**course**__, how stupid are you to try and curse an Auror?—_and Sirius is on his feet too, now, throwing every foul word he's ever known at Matthews—

"Detention, Mister Potter. Every night for the next month for attacking a teacher. I will be speaking to Professor Dumbledore about this." Peter has wrestled James' wand out of his hand, and Remus still has a tight grip on his left arm, but James would give anything to be free of them. He wants to leap across the desks and punch in that disgustingly smug face just to watch the blood flow from his nose—

Matthews is at least six and a half feet of pure muscle mass and could snap James like a twig, but maybe he doesn't care anymore. Because he's just threatened Remus' safety and secret and _life_ and Merlin knows what will happen if this gets out, if the Slytherins and the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs and the parents get a hold of this—

"Fine. Detention. But I'm sure as hell not staying in your shithole of a class." And before anyone has any time to react, before anyone can stop him, he has snatched his wand back from Peter, yanked his arm from Remus' grip, picked up his bag, and swept out of the classroom.

_Monsters, hah. _It's funny how Matthews is calling Remus a Dark creature…because James is sure Remus is a better person than any of them will ever be.


	17. Liar

**XVII. Liar**_  
>-<em>—_Damocles knows the truth.  
>December, 1975<em>

* * *

><p>Damocles Belby likes to keep to himself, most days.<p>

Sure, he has friends. Who doesn't, after all? But there are some times when he just needs to get away...from his roommates, from schoolwork, from _everything. _Hogwarts is huge; the thousand or so students who wander its halls are endlessly rambunctious; and when he's having a bad day...sometimes, he just can't handle it.

When these times come, he retreats to the library.

He's developed a fondness for Muggle literature; it's surprising, really, as he was brought up in a purely magical household. But he stumbled upon Shakespeare one March morning in his fourth year, and soon found himself immersed in the man's poetic style. He loves every one of the plays he can get his hands on.

Then he finds Tolkien, in June. And Twain. And Fitzgerald and Bronte and Orwell and he just can't get enough of it, can he? But the Hogwarts library has only a limited collection of Muggle works (even if Dumbledore is far from a pureblood elitist, there is simply little reason to keep them there), and soon he's running out of books to read. But one day in late November, he stumbles across one he hasn't read before; the title catches his eye, and the thick, leather binding draws him in until he can't resist picking it up.

_Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, author of The Complete Sherlock Holmes_.

Intrigued, he begins to read.

.

.

All too soon, of course, he has finished the book...and he is left with nothing but his thoughts—of Holmes and Watson, of how the wizarding world really shouldn't disregard these Muggles, because _damn _that was an excellent story...

And, of course, there's his new hobby of _deduction_.

It's not really a hobby, of course; it's not something that results in a physical end result; it's not something he can really share with his classmates... But he enjoys it nonetheless, because he's finding out things he never would have known otherwise.

_Severus Snape is not a pureblood, as he leads everyone to believe._

_Caradoc Dearborn, from Hufflepuff, is violently allergic to cats._

_His roommate, Reg Cattermole, is hopelessly in love with the Gryffindor, Mary Macdonald..._

And, perhaps most disturbing: something is definitely, _definitely_ wrong with Remus Lupin.

It's sometime in early December, Potions class (Damocles' favorite, as he always perfects—even improves—the set potions without really trying...which gives him plenty of time to observe his classmates), that he notices. He's known the boy has always been sickly; he noticed that all the way back in first year, when he seemed to disappear every several weeks. He's always chalked it up to a weak immune system; since the professors have never made a big deal about it, he figured the kid wasn't contagious and left well enough alone.

But now, Lupin's seated one desk to the right and ahead of Damocles, letting Black do most of the work (which is always a dangerous thing in and of itself) and clearly doing his best just to make it through the hour. It's a Friday, the last class of the day; everyone has been looking forward to the weekend, but it's easy to see that this is something else entirely.

_Glancing to the clock every several seconds...even more often than the worst slackers._

_Hands shaking violently as he hands Black the beetle legs._

_Breathing deep, even breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, as if willing himself not to be sick._

_Black is keeping the pungent mixture of crushed aconite roots on the far side of the table, as if to spare his friend the smell._

_Slughorn glances at him almost as often as he looks at the clock, though Damocles can't quite read his gaze..._

Lupin's head flickers to the left for a moment, saying something quietly to Pettigrew, next to him...and Damocles catches a glimpse of his eyes, which are an uncommonly bright gold.

_Fever._ It's easy enough to diagnose, with the way the boy is sweating and shaking and barely staying conscious. But surely, if he is this ill, he should be checking himself into the Hospital Wing? He wants to say something to him, ask if he's going to pass out (because allowing his head to fall into this particular potion would be nothing short of catastrophic), but he knows it's not exactly his place. He and Lupin have barely spoken ten words to each other in the four and a half years they've been at Hogwarts; it would be strange for him to speak up now.

So he is silent, and merely watches as class drags on.

.

.

Damocles doesn't see him all weekend, even though there's a Quidditch match, and Potter scores half the goals that ensure Gryffindor's victory.

(He must have gone to the Hospital Wing, after all.)

.

.

Damocles is in the library again the next week, but he isn't looking for more fiction to occupy his time. This is a new puzzle; it isn't nearly as obvious as the others, and he's almost _excited _to find out what is ailing Lupin. (He realizes, vaguely, that he shouldn't be finding delight in the other boy's obvious pain...but hey, it's not like he'll ever know, right?)

He meanders his way toward several books on magical diseases—and then, after a moment's consideration, picks up one on Muggle illnesses as well. He can't recall the boy's bloodline offhand; nothing has been ruled out yet. Damocles has to consider all the possibilities.

He breezes through several diseases that don't fit the symptoms, and then several more that might. He's never truly appreciated just how many illnesses there are in the world; it makes his task that much harder.

He makes a separate list as he goes on, of uncured diseases he wants to look into. After all, as long as he does well enough on his Potions OWLs and NEWTs (he knows he will), he wants to focus on potions research when he leaves Hogwarts. He knows there's a war brewing—knows that, perhaps, medical cures are going to be the least of the world's worries in a few short years. But he's not a fighter; he'll leave such things to the foolhardy, those like Potter and Black. For some reason, they don't seem to mind throwing themselves into danger without a second thought.

Shaking his head, he sighs deeply and immerses himself back into his books. He'll never understand Gryffindors, no matter how much deduction he tries.

The library closes for the night sooner than he'd like, so he packs himself up, rolling several scrolls into his bag and reshelving the books before leaving for his common room. He hasn't found much...but he has a few questions he'd like to ask Slughorn about specific potions, which he supposes is something. Though he hasn't made much progress on finding out what is ailing Lupin, he's focusing his career goals...which is definitely a good thing as well.

So the next day, he hangs back after Potions class, telling Reg and the others to go ahead without him, and approaches Slughorn at the front of the room. "Damocles! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The Potions Master is jovial as ever, smiling broadly up at him from behind his desk. "I just had a few questions, about potions' use in medicine, if you've got the time," Damocles says, smiling amicably and taking the seat opposite. He's always been vaguely put off by Slughorn's popularity contest of a class, but he puts up with it. After all, if he wants to get into any of the top research facilities the Ministry has to offer, he'll definitely need a letter of recommendation from Hogwarts' best.

"Ask away, my dear boy, ask away..."

He nods decisively, pulling the scroll from his pocket and glancing down it. "Well, I was just looking at some magical diseases the other day, and I was surprised to see how many of them don't have cures. I was thinking—" _(I know_—but it's always best to seem less threatening, less decisive to such people) "—that I want to do something like that when I leave Hogwarts, so I just wanted to ask if there were any recent breakthroughs, so I can stay up to date. And since you seem to be at the head of Potioneering..."

It's not exactly true, but it's what will put Slughorn in the best mood to answer his questions. He likes to feel powerful, and one of his best students asking for help will definitely boost his ego. (A means to an end. Damocles is proud, but not too proud to find answers in this way.) "Well, you'll have to give me specific diseases, my boy," Slughorn says, smiling. "I'm sure you know that Potioneering is an ever-expanding field, so forgive me if I don't know every study in detail." He laughs a bit, his enormous mustache wobbling.

Damocles suppresses a cringe and nods, smiling a bit. "Of course. I have a few in mind...the first I noticed was lycanthropy, but—"

He plans to go on, but the way Slughorn instantly stiffens stops the words in his throat. He chances a glance up from his list to see the man sitting, looking rather thunderstruck as he stares back at Damocles. _Widened eyes. Dilated pupils. Sweating brow._ Clearly, lycanthropy means something to Slughorn...but what could it possibly be? Werewolves, Damocles knows, are feared and hated by society (not that he's allowed himself to think in such trite terms; he'll draw his own opinions on each person he comes across...dangerous medical condition or no), and he feels safe in deducing that Slughorn is one of the blind masses...but why—?

"What about lycanthropy?" the man asks, and though he clearly tries to hide the waver in his voice, Damocles picks up on it immediately._  
><em>

"I just find it strange that it's such a painful—even lethal—disease, but nobody's found anything to help," he says slowly, watching the man's face carefully to gauge his reaction. Something seems to relax, there, and the man's shoulders drop minutely; if anything, he seems almost relieved.

"Well, it is a little-understood condition," Slughorn says at last, "and the lack of willing subjects makes it infinitely more difficult. In addition, there aren't many who are willing to work with werewolves, as I'm sure you know."

Damocles nods, suppressing an irritated scowl. People who follow others blindly—especially into personal convictions—irritate him to no end; he's found that several of his classmates will do nearly anything asked of them, without thinking of the consequences...and if they're told that all werewolves are exactly like Fenrir Greyback, they will believe it. Damocles knows that such generalizations will, in the end, only cause a self-fulfilling prophecy. "That's what I thought. Well—"_  
><em>

"Well, my boy, if that was all you needed, I fear I must be going. People to meet, places to be, you know," Slughorn says suddenly and loudly, standing up far too quickly to be natural. "I will see you in class on Wednesday, then?"

"...Yes, of course," he says slowly, narrowing his eyes as Slughorn does not wait for him to leave. Instead, he nearly flees the room, heading down the hallway toward the upper levels of the castle.

...Well. That was odd.

.

.

Wednesday's class comes soon enough; Lupin had returned by Monday afternoon, looking exhausted and still vaguely ill, but infinitely better than he did on Friday. _Chronic. Periodic. _Damocles mulls over what he knows as he works on his potion, but in reality, it isn't much. He's been mostly focused these past few days on his own career goals, sidetracked from his personal project by doing research into uncured diseases. But at his desk to the left and slightly behind Lupin and Black, it's hard to forget what had brought it all about.

Curiously enough, Slughorn seems to be looking at Lupin as well, though there's something like alarm in his gaze rather than the vague concern Damocles saw on Friday. The old man seems to focus on Damocles for several seconds, then glance toward Lupin (and he doesn't miss the terror that flashes through his eyes) and then back to the Ravenclaw. Even as he makes his rounds through the classroom, checking potions and correcting mistakes, Slughorn's eyes never seem to leave their tables, near the front.

Damocles wonders vaguely if the old man is still shaken up about his inquiries on Monday; he feels rather irritated as he carefully drops eel eyes into today's potion. Honestly—it was an innocent question, not one to get all riled up about. It's a medical condition, same as any other, and—

He loses his train of thought abruptly as Slughorn seems to tear his gaze from Damocles at last, his eyes (almost unconsciously, this time) sliding to Lupin. Damocles' brain grinds to a halt, suddenly putting his two ideas together.

_No. That's not possible._

As much as he, personally, doesn't have a problem with werewolves (it's not like he's ever met one, so who is he to judge?), Dumbledore _surely_ wouldn't allow—

The parents would never stand for—

(But none of the parents know, now do they?)

Reg yelps as the last of the eel eyes drop from Damocles' nerveless hand and fall into the potion, ruining it beyond repair, but he takes no notice._ Lupin. No._ That just isn't possible. He's a _prefect,_ for Merlin's sake—what kind of mad Headmaster would allow a werewolf to attend his school, let alone be in a position of _power—_

_This isn't possible..._

.

.

An hour, three moon charts, and half a dozen books later, of course, his findings are irrefutably confirmed. _The most recent full moon was that past Friday night. Though it's not every case, werewolves often have amber eyes. They're sick and feverish around the full moon, and often need several days to recover—_

He should be feeling the thrill of discovery. He should be experiencing the pulse behind his eyes that has always celebrated a newly solved mystery. This shouldn't be any different from any other deduction he's made...

But at the expense of everything else, Damocles only feels suddenly and violently ill.

He knows going to the professors will be useless. Surely, they know of it...and have taken precautions, as there have been no talks of werewolf attacks nearby in recent years. And the boy's been sick since first year—he remembers this clearly—so it's not a new condition.

But _Merlin..._

He may not blindly hate any and all werewolves; he may not begrudge them their difficult and painful existence. But he's never thought he's _known _one (as little as he knows Lupin, at least), and certainly isn't sure how to react to this new knowledge.

(For all his knowledge, for all his deductions and his intellect and his instincts, he finds that he has no idea what to do.)

So he'll keep quiet about it. After all, what else, honestly, _can_ he do? Dumbledore clearly has the situation under control, and there's no harm being done; from what he can tell, Lupin seems like a pretty decent guy. There's no sense in getting him thrown out of school for something so clearly unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

He shuts the books decisively, not bothering to reshelve them as he quickly grabs his bag and heads to a different part of the library. Potions—his home away from home. After all, he's got a debilitating disease to cure.


	18. Embrace

**XVIII. Embrace****_  
><em>**_-—Peter needs someone to confide in.  
>March, 1981<em>

* * *

><p>Peter doesn't think he's ever made such a stupid decision in his life by joining the Death Eaters' ranks.<p>

There's no backing out of it, of course, and he's a _Gryffindor,_ so he needs to learn to make the best of it in order to help the Order—in order to help his _friends_. That's why he did this in the first place, after all. He needs to stop whining and just _grow up_ and learn to play in the real world, now, because isn't that what this is all about?

(At first he tries to comfort himself by thinking of what James or Remus or Sirius would do in his situation, but then he realizes that none of them would be so _idiotic_ as to do something like this, and his self-worth falls even farther. He is entirely on his own, and he can't stand it because _they're his friends_ and they've always done everything together, but even though he did this for them, they wouldn't understand.)

(If he tells them what he's done, they'll desert him, turn him in to Dumbledore and Moody and all the others whom he won't admit he's terrified of. He can tell no one what he's tried—_what he's going to fail—_to do, and he can already feel the vicegrip such despair has around his heart.)

_(He doesn't know how long he's going to be able to do this.)_

They're at the Potters' for the evening, a heavily-guarded safehouse in a little town called Godric's Hollow. James is cooking in the kitchen, while Lily is resting on the couch and Remus and Sirius are making googly eyes at baby Harry. It's such a homely scene, and it should be _happy,_ despite the war raging on outside...but Peter can't see any of that. Every time he blinks, he sees Harry lying in his playpen, never to move again; he sees Lily's brilliant red hair splayed around her where she fell, _trying and failing to protect her son..._

He sees James splattered across the living room, just like Benjy _(that was his fault his fault **his fault** he gave Dolohov the information didn't he, **didn't he,** and he and Benjy were friends, and they trusted each other with their lives but **he killed him**)_, and the sudden thought makes him nauseous, that there are people in this world who would do such horrible things. There are people—too many people—who will laugh at others' pain, who will revel in their screams and bathe in their blood. He hates them—and the hate is perhaps more powerful than any other emotion he's ever felt in his life except for the fear—and he knows this—_all_ of this—is his sorry attempt at stopping them. He has to do _something.__  
><em>

(Stopping them...ha. What can he do? What can skittering, cowardly, _stupid_ Peter Pettigrew do against the likes of the Dark Lord?)

All he sees when he closes his eyes are his friends lost to this world by his own hand so he keeps them open; he tries his hardest to focus on what Sirius is cooing at Harry as the baby gurgles and grasps at Sirius' hair.

This is peaceful. These few, fleeting moments are what he's wanted his whole life. He should be happy.

He _should_ be.

(Why is it so hard?)

"Peter?" Somehow, Lily's quiet voice is louder than Harry's laughter and his own roaring thoughts, and he turns toward her to see worry reflected in her beautiful eyes. "Do you have a second? I wanted to ask you something."

He stares at her as she gestures vaguely up the stairs, and Remus does as well, twisting away from Harry and Sirius to send her a questioning glance. She offers nothing else, instead standing up and holding out a hand to Peter, helping him up from the ground.

He takes it because he isn't sure what this is about (_she can't know, she **can't,** _because even if Lily is wonderful and forgiving and would never, _never_ hate any of them, she wouldn't be able to forgive this huge of a betrayal. Nobody could.) and follows her up to Harry's nursery, where she shuts the door behind them and then makes her way to Harry's crib.

(What is this about?)

He opens his mouth to ask her but terror stoppers his throat, fills his lungs until he's not getting enough oxygen because _she knows, she must know;_ what else could this possibly be about if not his failure to do the right thing? She's pulled him away from his friends to soften the blow, to give him a chance to explain, because Sirius and James would kill him on the spot, he's sure of it, and even if Remus is more even-tempered he would still—

He realizes she's said something and is waiting for a reply, but he hasn't caught a word, so he blushes a bit and asks if she could please repeat herself. "I wanted to know if you're all right," she says softly, and they're not at all the words Peter was expecting to hear. "You've been so quiet, these past few months—more quiet than normal—and I know working with the Order is draining..."

She sighs, rearranging a few stuffed animals (a stag, a dog, a wolf, a rat, and all Peter can think is that his Animagus form isn't worthy of soiling Harry's crib with the sins of of a broken man) before turning to look at him, her eyes tired and worried. "If there's something wrong, I just want to help."

He wants to tell her. In this one, irrational, _suicidal_ moment, he wants to tell Lily everything. Surely, she will listen; she will understand; she will do her best to help. _She won't hate him._

But then self-preservation kicks in, and he realizes just how stupid that would be (even stupider than everything he's done thus far), and he knows he has to lie. "I'm just...tired," he says, and truly, this isn't even much of a falsehood at all. "Everything...I just want it to be over..."

Her gaze softens and before he can process what is happening, she's moving toward him and her arms are around his shoulders. (He's not any taller than her—the guys always poke fun at him for being so short.) The hug is unexpected but not unwelcome, and Peter feels himself returning it without a second thought. She's saying things, comforting things, soothing things, and even if they aren't true (because this war isn't even _close_ to being over, and nobody can promise that they'll all make it out alive, and _she shouldn't believe in him_ but she does...for some inexplicable reason, she believes that he is a good person when he is anything but) he finds himself relaxing, finding comfort in the falsehoods. Maybe, here, he can pretend that everything will be all right.

He can't tell her. He can't tell James or Sirius or Remus or Dumbledore or anyone, because this—_this—_is what he's craved all his life, this acceptance and this trust and this _love_ given so freely by his friends. He's ruined that but here in Lily's arms he can pretend; he can imagine that this will all turn out all right, and his wayward plans will not bring hellfire upon all of their heads, and You-Know-Who will be killed and life will return to how it should be.

He knows that this won't ever happen, and in all likelihood, he'll be dead before the war is over, but he thinks he doesn't mind that as long as his friends love him...

(Because even if he doesn't—hasn't ever—deserved it, it's still the nicest thing he's had in his entire life.)


	19. Accept

**XIX: Accept  
><strong>_-—__Nobody is quite sure what to do when Albus approaches them about one of the new first years.**  
><strong>August, 1971_

* * *

><p>Minerva has no reason to believe that this is going to be anything but a normal school year.<p>

There were some last names she immediately recognized from the first years' roster; Potter and Black are chief among them. Potter, naturally, will be joining her house—and, with any luck, he will have inherited his mother's levelheadedness instead of his father's rambunctiousness. Black will trot off to Horace's house quick as you please, happy to join his cousins and follow behind the rest of his family.

She doesn't give such people much thought.

She made a note of any Muggleborns, because she had to go visit their families, or else send Horace or one of the other professors along instead. Other names she vaguely remembers—sometimes from her own classmates, sometimes from students who have older siblings already attending school.

No names truly stick out to her, as she's been signing acceptance letters for years; this looks like any normal set of eleven year olds, ready to start their magical education.

So she wonders, now—why has Albus called a mandatory staff meeting to discuss the incoming first years?

None of the other professors seem to know anything, either; Filius, Pomona, and Horace all send her confused glances as they sit down at the long table. Some of the other professors are muttering amongst themselves, wondering what could have brought this about; but Minerva does not participate, simply running through the list of names in her head, trying to find an anomaly.

However, nothing at all stands out to her, and she eventually has to resign herself to hearing Albus' explanation.

He strolls into the staff room right on time, smiling pleasantly at them all in the way Minerva knows he's about to tell them unpleasant news. Her hands clench tightly under the table, watching him like a hawk until he seats himself at the head of the table, glancing around to make sure everyone is here before finally saying—

"I'm sure you're wondering why I have called you here today, about a topic so mundane as the incoming first years."

A general murmur of assent goes down the table, several professors raising an eyebrow in the Headmaster's direction—Minerva being one of them. Luckily, he continues quickly, "There is just one small matter I would like to discuss with you before they arrive. One of the students has a...serious medical condition, one that each of you should be aware of before it makes itself evident."

All heads immediately turn to Madame Pomfrey, who looks just as nonplussed as the rest of them. She stares at Albus for a moment with narrowed eyes before saying, "And you didn't think it important to inform me of this before now? The students arrive in two weeks, Albus!"

He inclines his head. "We will need to make accommodations—Poppy, myself, Pomona, and whoever is to be his Head of House. But as it will affect his studies, the rest of you should know as well."

There's a pregnant pause, in which Minerva feels her hands twitch and Filius shifts nervously next to her, before Albus finally continues, "One of the first years—Remus Lupin—is afflicted with lycanthropy."

Nobody says anything for a moment; Minerva's first thought is that she must have misheard him. _Lycanthropy,_ after all, is a dangerous ailment—while she doesn't think she shares the same blind fear of werewolves that most of the wizarding world does, she's not sure that letting one _attend Hogwarts_ would be a wise decision. After all, such an ailment would put the other students in danger... On the nights of the full moon, if he doesn't—

Horace makes a pathetic sort of choking noise into the silence of the room, breaking everyone out of their stupors and causing them all to start speaking at once. Minerva says nothing, though, simply staring at Albus—surely, he wouldn't do such a thing lightly? He is old and eccentric, but surely not senile enough to put the entire student body in danger—

"_Silence!"_ Albus roars over the cacophany, and every head turns again toward him as he continues, "I have met with Mister Lupin and his parents, and they are willing to cooperate with whatever measures we are willing to take in order to secure him during the full moon. He is a responsible boy, and has been dealing with this condition for several years. There is absolutely nothing to worry about."

Nobody dares to say anything, but as Minerva glances down the table, she sees many skeptical faces. Horace, in particular, looks particularly pasty about the idea, and she supposes she'll just have to hope that Lupin doesn't end up in Slytherin. The Potions Master might have an aneurysm otherwise.

"There's nothing any of us can say to convince you otherwise, then?" the newest Defense professor asked, raising one gnarled eyebrow. "Despite the danger this boy will pose to everyone at this school? What if this gets out to the parents, Albus? I can't imagine they would be terribly pleased."

Albus inclines his head, a dangerous twinkle in his eye as he replies, "Well, we will not have to worry about that, as none of you will be divulging this information to anyone outside this room. Mister Lupin will be safely quarantined when he transforms, will recover in the Hospital Wing, and then will return to his classes when he is able. There is nothing else to it."

There's clear dismissal in his tone, and slowly, the rest of the staff stands, making their way to the door and muttering quietly amongst themselves. Minerva falls back, standing near Albus as he smiles up at her. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" she asks in an undertone. She won't allow any preconceived notions to filter her view of the boy—at least to the best of her ability—but she still finds herself reluctant to open the rest of the school up to such danger.

"I always do, Minerva," he says, his smile growing wider, and she supposes she won't get a better answer than that.

.

.

Two weeks later, a Whomping Willow has been planted on the grounds, the old house in Hogsmeade has been warded against any sort of penetration imaginable, and the professors are waiting anxiously in the Great Hall for the first years to arrive. Minerva can see Horace sitting rather stiffly, even from halfway down the table; Filius, next to her, is craning his neck to see over the older students' heads as Hagrid finally leads a group of children into the Great Hall.

Minerva isn't surprised to see that she can't pick out Remus Lupin from the crowd; after all, it would be ridiculous to assume that he would _look _like a werewolf, especially when the full moon is still several days away. So she resigns herself to waiting for the L's as she stands and steps forward, unrolling the long scroll and calling out the first name on the list.

She's more than a little surprised to see that Sirius Black joins her house—she can see the incredulous looks shared throughout the entirety of the Hall...but the boy only shakes his scruffy dark hair out of his eyes with a grin, gives a thumbs-up to a boy in the crowd who can only be a Potter, and hurries off to the Gryffindor table.

Well, she supposes this year will be full of surprises.

Eventually, she reaches "Lupin, Remus," and she sees every professor lean forward with interest as they watch the first years, eager to see who will step forward.

Of all people—it's a small, brown-haired boy, shorter than average, with dark bags under his eyes and second-hand robes. He looks incredibly nervous; his hands are shaking as he accepts the hat from Minerva, and when he sits down on the stool, his fingers grasp the edges tightly.

It's only a few seconds before the Hat proclaims him a Gryffindor.

And despite the soft noises of astonishment from behind her, Minerva can't help but smile at the boy as he slides off the stool and hands her the hat; and when he smiles back, she knows that Albus was right in doing this.

After all, right now, he's not anything but a normal boy...and she doesn't think she'll have a problem accepting him into her house and into the school at large.


	20. Love

**XX. Love  
><strong>_-—Sirius loves far too much, and this has always been his greatest failing.  
><em>

Sirius has always known that his weakness is that of loving far too intensely for any one mind to take.

He throws himself into life and relationships and everything else he cares about with the same fervor, the same all-consuming intensity that he sees in Bellatrix and his parents, and it terrifies him that maybe they are the same after all. He refuses point-blank to admit this, of course—prides himself on being a Gryffindor, on befriending a Potter and a werewolf (not that he'd tell his parents this—he respects Remus far too much), on irritating his parents every chance he gets…

It should be gratifying, he thinks, but all he gets is a hollow feeling in his gut, a horrible dread that maybe doing such things only makes him that much more similar to the family that he would do anything to avoid.

Bellatrix studies the Dark Arts with a dangerous fervor that has terrified Sirius for years; his parents are more conservative, but actively belittle Muggleborns every chance they get (and he hates himself, that he didn't even know _Mudblood_ was a derogatory term until he arrived at Hogwarts). They are conservative in their beliefs but no less poisonous, and Sirius begs his friends to correct him if he ever steps out of line simply by not knowing.

He hates his family, that he has been so misaligned in his thinking that he can be offensive without realizing, that he can so easily slip into that mindset that he has realized is so, so wrong. But mostly he hates himself for allowing it to happen in the first place, and works fervently to ensure that he does not allow it to happen again. He throws himself into his relationships; James is closer than a friend—closer than even a _brother _(or what he imagines a proper one to be); they are nothing short of identical twins in all but blood, and Sirius cannot imagine a life without James at his side.

And Remus and Peter—not his twins, but his brothers all the same: Remus, the level-headed elder who keeps the four of them alive even when they probably should have died of their own stupidity years ago; and Peter, the lost brother who grew up alone—timid but kind and loving and just as wonderful as the others. The four of them—they're a _pack, _they're a singular unit—and Sirius does not think for one moment that he could function properly without any one of them at his side.

The rest of the school population are like satellites—present, surely important, but pale in comparison to those he truly cares about. He actively works to keep his views unfettered by those of his parents—he squashes down his astonishment that Lily Evans is top of the class in Potions, will deny to the end of his days the injustice he felt when, in first year, Lily and Mary Macdonald performed better than him in Defense.

(His father's voice echoes through his ears—_"You are better than them, Sirius. You are superior because of your pure blood—you will turn out to be great, and they will amount to nothing. The Muggles and the Mudbloods are nothing more than dirt compared to you."—_and he forces himself to realize that a person is a person, and their blood status doesn't matter, and Lily Evans is absolutely brilliant even though her parents are as non-magical as can be.)

He actively works to see every person in the school as equal in opportunity—does his best not to think any better of a person by their blood status or their parents, and judges only on the _person._ He hates Severus Snape not because his mother is a bigot, not because he is a Slytherin, but because he is too weak to see right—too hypocritical to truly treat Muggleborns as equal, even though he claims to be friends with Lily. He hates Severus Snape because the boy dislikes people on principle: the bastard hates James because he is a Gryffindor and a Potter, hates Remus because of the nature of his illness, hates Peter because the boy is quiet and achieves only average grades despite working just as hard as Remus—

Severus Snape is everything Sirius has sworn never to be again, and he cannot stand being in his presence…because he knows that if he had been a little less rebellious, had not begged the Sorting Hat to put him anywhere but Slytherin, he could have easily ended up just like him.

It might be because of this single-minded determination, this all-consuming passion, but he realizes in his fifth year that he sees the school population differently than the others.

James, of course, has been eyeing Lily Evans for several months now—and Peter has his eye on a girl or two from the other houses, though Sirius thinks (not cruelly, but realistically) that he will be surprised if he ever asks one of them out. Remus, of course, with his good looks and his kindness and his willingness to help others, has attracted plenty of attention from girls, but he has methodically (kindly) turned down every one of them, a wistful but resigned look on his face.

Sirius knows his reasoning, even if he doesn't agree with it, because _Remus deserves so much more than this,_ and he knows there are good people who will look past his condition to love the man himself.

But this is what puzzles him most, he thinks—because everyone has paired off by gender: male and female, always different, always complementary, and that seems to simply be the accepted norm. He finds this odd, though, because while many girls have caught Sirius' eye, so have plenty of boys—gender doesn't really matter to him, and he'd be just as willing to snog Marlene McKinnon as Caradoc Dearborn.

(Why should it matter, if the person's heart is good and they are attractive and he feels that they are compatible with each other?)

He speaks of it with James one night after their O.W.L.s are over, after Remus and Peter have passed out and the two of them are left, passing a cheap bottle of smuggled Firewhiskey between them and waxing eloquent about whatever pops into their minds.

"You ever going to ask a girl out, mate?" James asks suddenly, squinting in the dim light over at his friend, a crease in his brow. Sirius understands his confusion—he knows he's good-looking, has had more than one girl approach him about a trip to Hogsmeade…but he's only been on a few dates, and never been in a relationship that lasted more than a couple of months. They weren't…right, and he wouldn't want to saddle some poor girl with a relationship that was never going to work, no matter how much fun they had behind closed doors.

"I dunno," he replies after a moment, contemplating the whiskey before taking a swig, doing his best not to choke as the liquor burns his throat. "I've been thinking of asking Caradoc, but I don't think he's interested in blokes, is he?"

"Dunno," James says, and the surprise on his face is quickly masked by curiosity. "Are you? When you went out with Hestia, I figured—"

Sirius shrugs, taking another drink before passing the bottle over. "I'm not bothered by it, really. If I like 'em, who gives a shit about what they've got in their pants?"

James hums, a thoughtful expression on his face. "No harm in asking him, I guess. Worst that can happen is he says no."

(He does say no, in the end, when Sirius catches him on their way to the carriages the next week…but he lets Sirius down kindly enough. James claps him on the shoulder when he returns with a somber expression, and Remus and Peter produce enough chocolate to feed a small army to try and make him feel better, and Sirius can only think that he has the best friends—_brothers_—in the entire world.)

In the years after they leave Hogwarts, he thinks that he'd love to find someone to settle down with—someone willing to put up with his high-energy disposition, his unfailing loyalty to his friends _(brothers_), the passion with which he tackles life and all its struggles… But there is a war, and he is on the front lines, and anything remotely involving romance is pushed to the back of his mind in favor of protecting as many people as possible.

James and Lily (they're perfect for each other, Sirius recognizes, even as he hates that James is not around as much anymore) are married, have a child, and Sirius loves little Harry with an intensity that surprises even him. He's the spitting image of James; his laugh is nothing short of adorable—and sometimes, as the world grows ever-darker, this little boy is the only thing that helps Sirius hold onto his sanity as everything he has worked to protect crumbles to ashes around him.

(If he ever ends up with a child, he wants to be as good a father as James—he wants his baby to be as happy as Harry—he wants that joy in his own life with whoever he falls in love with.)

He wants this, but it will never happen, because his entire world crumbles away one autumn night when his other half is ripped away from him. Something snaps, he thinks—he loses something irreplaceable that night, and he is never the same again.

(Twelve years is a long time in which to lose yourself, and Sirius has a lot of regrets, a lot of anger and shame and guilt and _hatred_ which have only been left to fester.)

When he finally breaks out of Azkaban, something is broken within him. He has lost direction—he is passionate, he feels just as intensely as before, but there is nowhere for it to _go._ Before, James had been his compass—James had been the one to guide him, to stop him before he was too far gone…

But now, James is beyond his reach, and his voice of reason has been silenced, and Sirius feels himself spiraling deeper and deeper into his own mind until he fears he will never get out.

He wonders whether this is what it's like to go insane. (And then he wonders whether he didn't, that night in Godric's Hollow, clutching the body of his brother and screaming to the heavens for an explanation, a miracle, _anything_—)

He knows he is losing himself to the self-hatred and the rage and the phantoms that hover just beyond the edges of his vision. _He should have saved them; _he should have seen the signs, tried to help Peter before he was too far gone—

(But the vindictive voice in his head—growing louder day by day, and becoming too loud to easily silence—says that there was nothing he could have done, that this is his fault for trusting puny, stupid Peter with such a monumental task as protecting the Potters—)

He hates himself and he hates Peter and he hates Snape and Dumbledore and sometimes, in his darkest moments, he hates James too, for leaving him behind—he misses his brother, so much that the loss is a physical ache in his chest that he carries every day—

Harry—so very young, but with eyes older than his fifteen years that carry the same ghosts that Sirius lives with every day—and Remus are his entire life, and he clings to the both of them like a lifeline even as he feels his mind slipping away from him. It's not a sudden process; he knows it will be a long while before he loses himself completely.

But he loses enough of himself to forget, sometimes—looks at his godson and sees his brother, looks at Remus and sees happier times long past, looks in the mirror and sees _hell_—

("You love so much," James said, one day in their seventh year, when Sirius was having a particularly low day and on the verge of irrational tears, burying his face in his pillow. "You care about other people, and that's not a bad thing at all—that makes you one of the best people I've ever known. Just don't forget about caring for yourself, all right? You're just as important as the rest of us.")

He loves so intensely, and this has always been his downfall—because his life has always relied on few, spindly supports to keep him focused, and they have long since crumbled away. He hates Severus Snape, but he doesn't remember why; he fights in the war against Voldemort, pours his soul and his entire _being_ into this battle, but for the life of him he cannot figure out what all of it is for.

Without James Potter to guide him, Sirius Black is a ship lost at sea, her sails torn and ruined and her hull rent, waiting and waiting and waiting to sink beneath the waves.

And it is this half-mad Sirius Black (ghosts of friends long gone dancing at the corners of his vision, their voices muffled beyond recognition and their hands just out of reach) who charges into the Department of Mysteries after one of the only people he still cares for in this world, laughing in the face of danger like he always has (and almost hearing an answering laugh, if he strains his ears just hard enough, from someone he hasn't heard in fourteen years) and, ultimately, paying the price.

After all, he has always loved too much—those with him in the flesh, and those he has never been able to let go (and too often, he finds himself unable to tell the difference)—

And even though this maddening passion has become his downfall, he'd be lying if he said he regretted even a single moment of it…because now that he has met his end, maybe he will finally find the love and the peace and the _sanity_ he has been missing for so, so long.


	21. Trust

**XXI. Trust**  
><em>-—For Remus, trusting others—and thus loving them—can be nearly impossible.<em>

Remus has known love all his life, but he has known hatred too, and the difference here is that, too often, he cannot quite tell the difference.

He is slow to trust and paranoid, sometimes, of even his closest friends; five years of a solitary childhood have ruined any instincts toward friendship he might have had, and while his parents loved him dearly and did their best to show it, there is only so much a mother and father can do for a boy with such a broken life.

Learning to trust—and, yes, eventually love—James and Peter and Sirius was a slow and painful process. In the beginning—that first, trying year when they did not know the burdens he carried—they did not understand. They took offense at his reticence, questioned his paranoia and rebuked his never-ending questions.

_Is this all right, that I'm doing this instead of slacking off with you?_

_Would it bother you if I studied Potions in the library with Lily?_

_If you wouldn't mind, I'd rather go to bed early tonight than go sneaking out…_

He needed _(needs)_ constant validation, constant assurance that he is not upsetting anyone around him and that he is putting others ahead of himself. He has faced fear and hatred and disgust, and though his friends have never shown an ounce of any such emotions toward him, he can't help but wonder, sometimes, in the darkest corners of the darkest nights when he lies awake, staring at his canopy and asking himself circling questions of _am I good enough _and _why do they keep me around?_

Peter seems to understand, at least some, for Remus sees the same panic in his eyes when Sirius and James get into a mock argument. _Aggression is bad, _their over-anxious minds tell them. _Any signs of anger are your fault—always **always** your fault._

James and Sirius—rambunctious, sheltered children as they are—take longer to notice his stiffening shoulders, rising gradually toward his ears, his halted breathing and his clenched fists. They don't understand—_can't_ understand, because their personalities are so contrary to such fear, but they _try_, and for that Remus can only be unendingly grateful.

(But then James pokes fun at him for not mastering the Transfiguration assignment as fast as he does, and Sirius mock-blames him for getting them caught after a successful prank, and he can't help the nausea swirling in his stomach, the empty pit of _not good enough_ swelling his heart painfully.)

(After all, if he can't do everything right, they have no reason to keep him around. He's just the werewolf, after all—the expendable roommate that they only keep around for his level head and the entertainment he provides every full moon.)

He doesn't believe such things…but sometimes, in his lowest moments, when the world is spinning and his mind is running too fast _too fast TOO FAST_ and his hands are shaking and tears are spilling down his cheeks in the silence of the dead of night, he can't help but wonder.

And so, despite the friendship he has with his roommates (he does have it, right? They're his friends? Because he trusts them with his life and the four of them are closer than brothers, insecurity is a poison seeping constantly through his veins, and he hates that he can't always convince himself of their sincerity), when others his age are falling in and out of love and snogging in broom cupboards and whispering in the corners of the common room, he can't even bring himself to _consider_ asking a girl out to Hogsmeade. He's an inferior creature to the other boys at Hogwarts, after all; no one would ever consider dating a _werewolf_ when there are people like James Potter walking around. Hell, he's fairly certain that most of the student population would choose _Severus Snape_ over him, should his secret be revealed to the school at large.

He doesn't mind it, usually. But when James pines after Lily (trying to fill the hole in his heart with other girls he snogs and brings to Hogsmeade and to his bed, and Remus can tell—he just _can_—that they're not what he really wants), and when even Peter, eventually, starts dating that lovely girl from Ravenclaw near the end of their sixth year (though it doesn't last long, and Peter refuses to speak of it), he can't help but feel that nagging loneliness that won't quite leave him alone.

He wants someone like that, he realizes. He wants someone to hold, and be held in turn; he wants a comforting presence at his side to help him through the bad days; he wants someone to kiss and keep and call his own. He wants, and can never have, and he tells himself that he has resigned himself to this fate even though he knows with every fiber of his being that it is a lie.

He's always loved children. When Harry is born, he volunteers to babysit more than any other, squishes his cheeks and makes the little boy laugh more than Sirius or Peter or Mary or Marlene ever can. _You'd be a great dad,_ they tell him, laughing along with Harry as Remus pulls yet another silly face at the boy. _When you finally settle down with some nice girl, I can't wait to see how your kids turn out._

But he never does—at least, when any of them are alive to see it. His entire life falls apart that night, the night Sirius _(Peter, _and he hates himself for the twelve years he wastes mourning the loss of the wrong friend) betrayed James and betrayed him and betrayed everything that made them _brothers_. Everything that kept him going, everything that held him together was shattered that night, and he was left alone to try and pick up the pieces.

(He's a faded patchwork version of himself—barely recognizable anymore as the teenager who thought, sometimes, in his happiest moments, that his life was nearly normal—)

He grows old and bitter and weary as the years go on, and the ragged stitches holding him together are slowly tearing at the seams. Sirius is back, but he is not the same, and the both of them are falling apart as their too-youthful bodies clash with their aged, half-mad minds. Remus pulls himself together through hard-won stoicism; Sirius does not.

(He mourns his friend's death; he rages and screams and sobs and begs whatever gods exist to _bring his friends back_—but he knows that the Sirius Black that escaped Azkaban was not the Sirius Black he once knew, and he realizes that it is almost a mercy that he passed through the Veil, to the hard-earned happiness surely waiting for him on the other side.)

(He is jealous of his friends, in that moment, that they are reunited and happy while he trudges on through this hopeless life.)

But it's only now, when his friends are dead and gone—it's only when he is all but alone in the world with only the shattered remnants of the Order for company—that he finally gets the wish he has nearly forgotten through the years of loneliness and regret. He has a wife—a beautiful, vibrant woman whom he does not in any way deserve. Dora is wonderful and young and should love so much more than him—should love someone she _deserves,_ someone who could shower her with riches and love that Remus' shattered soul simply cannot provide.

But, inexplicably, she loves _him,_ stands by him through the grief and the full moons and the nightmares, and even as he knows he should not have this, he feels so incredibly grateful. He grips Dora tight in the darkest hours of the night, wraps his arms around her waist and buries his nose in her beautiful hair and pretends—if only for a moment—that everything is all right.

(And sometimes, he allows himself to believe it.)

And then—after he is sure he has exhausted every bit of luck and good fortune he will ever be allowed—he is gifted a son, a beautiful baby boy with bright blue hair and eyes every color of the rainbow. (Suddenly, he understands the adoration in James' eyes when he looked at Harry, understands every bit of that desperation to _protect _and _keep_ and _love_, to tear down the whole world if it would keep him safe—)

He loves Teddy with every fiber of his being; he loves him with all the intensity he can muster from his shattered heart. He fears it is not enough—he fears he will not be a good father as James was, as Sirius could have been. But he loves Teddy and he loves Dora and Harry and all the rest, and he does as best he can by them, and he supposes that has to be enough.

And months later, it's for that child—and for Harry, and for the children his friends never got the chance to have—that he lays down his life on the bloody battlefield that was once his childhood haven. He duels Dolohov and watches hopelessly as Dora is murdered by her own kin—knows despite his tears that _Harry has to survive at all costs,_ and for that to happen, he has to keep fighting until the bitter end.

And when the green light fills his vision all too quickly—they are in close quarters, too close for him to dodge, to summon a barrier—all he can think of is the irony that this spell, the curse that brings death and destruction and anguish to everything it touches, is the exact shade of Harry's eyes.

(Funny, that this cursed boy in whom they have put so much trust—the boy to whom he has poured so much of his ragged, exhausted love all these years—is the one who will save the survivors from this loveless hell Voldemort is trying so hard to create.)


End file.
